


The Hard Way Home

by feelslikefire



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bedsharing, Cohabitation, Crowley thinks human bodies are vile and I don't disagree, Domesticity, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, Ineffable Idiots, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Slow Burn, mentions of dysphoria, the mortifying ordeal of being human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2020-10-24 07:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 61,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20701925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelslikefire/pseuds/feelslikefire
Summary: In the wake of Armageddidn't, Crowley and Aziraphale struggle with their relationship to each other and what to do with themselves. Fate intervenes in the form of the Four Horsepeople and their afflictions, although not quite in the way either demon or angel would have expected.(Or: two supernatural idiots get stricken with mortality and have to muddle through the ordeal of being human as well as their own feelings. It goes about as well as you might expect. Shenanigans, mutual pining, and long-suppressed feelings abound.)





	1. like a stone: 1

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose it was inevitable I'd write something for this fandom, as I've loved the book for a good 15 years and the TV adaptation is so brilliant. In tone and canon, this is based somewhat more on the TV show than the book. Thanks to seventhstar and circ_bamboo for their fine-tuning and beta-ing and for enduring my staggering abuses of modifiers, and thanks to grimdarkfandango for the britpick. 
> 
> Also, look for more tags to be added as the rest gets posted, and I will adjust the rating if/when it becomes necessary.
> 
> UPDATE: Hello everyone! I went back in and broke the 1st huge chapter into 3 smaller chunks, and will be posting smaller chapters going forward - hence the much larger chapter count. The new chapter is chapter 4. Thanks for reading!

Some six weeks after the world failed to end, two immortal supernatural beings were having some Troubles. The trouble came from being both very experienced and very stupid.

Both the demon Crowley and the principality Aziraphale thought they knew what they wanted. But when faced with the impending end of the world, it turned out that what they knew was mostly what they _didn’t_ want. To wit: they didn’t want the world to end. They didn’t want to continue pretending to toe the line for Upper Management who cared only about Winning and not about the cost thereof. They didn’t want to give up drinking, or sushi, or cars, or arguing, or plants, or books, or humans, or (last but not least and possibly most of all) each other.

This last bit was very important. Naturally, it was also the bit that gave them the most trouble. So instead of talking about it, they spent a full month and a half after the Apoca-nope frantically avoiding the subject while also stealing longing glances at each other over dinner, dessert, drinks, ducks, driving, and other activities that start with ‘d.’ 

They didn’t _mean_ to fight. It was the kind of row you have when you’re not really mad at anyone in particular but have found yourself at loose ends and no longer know what to do with yourself, and therefore wind up directing your discontent at the nearest convenient target. (There was a relevant phrase about idle hands and the devil, but as he was still very sore over the events of the Apocadidn’t, the less said about him, the better.) 

So by the time Crowley turned up at Aziraphale’s bookshop with a pair of tickets to a popular West End musical, the lustre of their freedom had dulled a little. On some level, Crowley already knew. He possessed moderately more self-awareness than Aziraphale—doubt and questioning had been his profession for over 6000 years, after all—and he was starting to wonder what on Earth he was going to do now that he didn’t have any Satanic Wiles to distract himself with. Was there any point in tempting humans now he’d been fired from hellish duty? Was he still a demon if he didn’t spend his time doing demonic things? What did a has-been demon _do_?

(Truthfully, it had been a very long time since Crowley had been anything more than nominally demonic. He preferred obnoxiousness and chaos over genuine harm. But now he no longer had even the pretense to go on.)

In other words, Crowley was having a crisis. He was discovering how terrifying it was to be water: shapeless without a container, now freed from the one that had defined him for so long. 

He didn’t say any of this to Aziraphale, of course. That would be mad, and also it would break their unspoken rules of engagement. (Crowley wasn’t certain how many of those rules still applied but, well, they hadn’t talked about it. That’s why they were unspoken.) 

What he said was, “Hey there, angel. Can I tempt you to a spot of theatre tonight?”

Aziraphale glanced up from his book. His face had a pinched look to it that didn’t suit, but it faded as soon as their eyes met. A knot in Crowley’s chest loosened at the bright cornflower blue of that gaze. He could (and had) write odes to those eyes. “Oh, that sounds lovely. But my dear boy, I thought you didn’t like theatre,” said Aziraphale. He stood up from the desk and came over to where Crowley lounged demonically by the door. “What show is it?”

“I like theatre all right,” Crowley said, a touch defensive. “As long as it’s not bloody miserable.” He held out his offering, doing a very good job of pretending his stomach didn’t flip when Aziraphale’s fingers brushed his in the process of taking the envelope.

“Our definitions of ‘miserable’ must be very different,” Aziraphale said mildly. He pulled the tickets from the envelope, glancing at the contents. 

There was the briefest of moments between Aziraphale looking at the envelope’s contents and reacting where Crowley thought he heard something: a noise like metal scraping against metal, as of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

The angel’s face fell. Actually, his face didn’t fall so much as ‘turn pale and faintly nauseated.’ Crowley had spent a good sixty centuries building a mental catalogue of Aziraphale’s different expressions, and this was _not_ the one he’d hoped to see in response to two _Hamilton_ tickets. 

“Crowley, what are you playing at?” demanded Aziraphale. “Is this meant to be some kind of joke?”

Crowley’s stomach plummeted through his snakeskin shoes and straight on downward, headed for Beelzebub’s evening lava pit. His mouth worked like a largemouth bass’s for several seconds, making a few similar noises in the process, then snapped shut. “It’s _Hamilton!_” he said. “What—it’s popular, angel, don’t sound so put out about it! And weren’t you just listening to the soundtrack last week?”

“It’s not proper theatre,” Aziraphale said coldly. “It’s full of—bebop. And anyway, I’m not in the mood.” He shoved the envelope with the two tickets in it back at Crowley and turned away, movements as stiff and unfriendly as a puffed-up hedgehog. 

Crowley’s temper spiked. “Hang on,” he said. “Since when are you the only one allowed to have opinions about theatre? How many Sondheim shows have I sat through with you?” (_Passion_ was a particularly painful experience, one neither of them much liked to speak of. Crowley didn’t think he’d seen something so overwrought since that mopey sad sack Byron.)

“That’s different,” said Aziraphale, in the tone of voice of someone who knew full well it wasn’t different at all and was annoyed at having it pointed out. “I told you, I’m not in the mood. I know you have nothing to occupy yourself with now that there’s no point in tempting humans for your infernal masters, but that doesn’t mean you can spend all your time tormenting me, Crowley.”

This was too much. Crowley pushed off the wall, the stink of brimstone souring the air as his nature asserted itself. “Tormenting’s what I _do_, angel, or have you forgot?” he hissed. “I torment. I wile. I—I _foment._” The fact that he hadn’t been doing much of any of those things the past six weeks (six millennia) did not bear mentioning. He had _standards_. 

“How silly of me to overlook.” Aziraphale turned around, and Crowley took a step back at the cold fire burning in his face. “But you seem to have also forgotten that since our positions have been terminated, there’s no more call for our Arrangement. I don’t have to put up with your wretched temptations for the humans’ sake, anymore.” 

Crowley swallowed hard. Steel on steel rang inside his skull; his eyes watered, making him glad for the shield of his sunglasses. 

There were at least a dozen good ways to respond to Aziraphale’s sudden and only somewhat-explicable show of pique. All of them ran through Crowley’s mind, and were chased out by the growing taste of copper on his tongue. He gritted his teeth, yanking his sunglasses from eyes that had gone full yellow with only a narrow slit of black rage.

“Fine,” he spat, and suffered a sickly thrill at watching Aziraphale recoil. “See if I care, angel. Ssssorry my temptations are such a _torment_!” 

“Fine!” Aziraphale was almost shouting. He grabbed the back of his chair with such violence that Crowley half-expected it to be thrown at him. That by itself should have been a red flag, but by then Crowley’s mind had gone up in such red and pointless fury that the flag was lost in all the mess.

He stormed from the shop, the door slamming behind him with the force of his passing. Crowley threw himself into the Bentley and then threw the car into gear. He tore away from the curb with such ferocity that two cyclists and a fire hydrant were booted from time-space in the process and found themselves half a block down and thoroughly confused. 

The scrape of metal came again, louder than before. With it came strife and fury and violence, all of it overlaid with a deep and terrible grief.

* * * * *

By the time he made it home, Crowley had broken out in a cold sweat. As a fundamentally cold-blooded being, he was uncomfortable on a number of levels, made worse by an accompanying thirst that fell upon him like a plague. His throat grew drier and drier as he clawed his way upstairs, unable to think past the need to positively drown himself in alcohol.

Crowley burst into his flat with a snarl. His plants quaked at his entrance, trembling from the tips of their verdant leaves to the ends of their roots. They could tell that this wasn’t Crowley’s usual low-grade snit; this was different. This meant business. 

He stalked down the hall, throwing open his cupboard and grabbing a bottle of whisky at random. Crowley sat himself at the table, not even bothering with the pretense of a glass. 

Stupid angel. Stupid, bloody condescending, fickle bastard. Stupid gorgeous perfect angel that Crowley couldn’t seem to please no matter what he did, couldn’t seem to find his way through to. He’d thought maybe, _finally_, after all that happened with the Apocalypse, they’d be able to say and act how they really felt, but no! 

What was that human phrase? Pissing in the wind. Disgusting, really. But it felt particularly apt at the moment.

Crowley snarled again, and the paint on the wall opposite him peeled a little bit in fear. He took a pull of the whisky—fine single malt Scotch, actually, not that he could currently tell or care. His throat was _so_ dry. He hadn’t craved alcohol so badly in nearly a century, and he didn’t remember a time when he felt so fucking thirsty.

It took polishing off three bottles of liquor (two of whisky, one of gin) for Crowley to notice that he wasn’t even a little bit drunk. Worse, somehow, he was still utterly parched. And his midsection was tied in knots for some reason, horrible cramps twisting through his guts like Agrippina had given him the nightshade instead of that poor bastard Claudius. It was awful. 

Crowley shoved off from the table. He staggered to his kitchen sink with some difficulty—he’d come over all weak and light-headed. He turned the faucet on and stuck his head under it like some kind of wanker in a stage play, trying to catch some of the water in his mouth. Desperation made him gulp great swallows of it, fingers barely managing to grip the edges of the sink. But the water seemed to dry up in his mouth. He stood there guzzling at the tap for thirty seconds before giving up in despair. 

“FUCK!” Crowley yelled. He twisted around, leaning heavily against the edge of the counter as he tried to get his mind round what was happening. But it was so hard to think straight. Why did he feel so bad? He’d gone on drinking benders before (often with Aziraphale) but they’d never felt like _this_. 

And why had Aziraphale gotten so mad at him, anyway? That was strange. Crowley knew they both were a bit at loose ends, both trying to sort themselves out, but this was beyond the pale. Something was wrong. 

Just as he was starting to see the shape of it, a new sensation reached him. He saw it at the same time as he smelled it: white drifting dust, blowing aimlessly down the hallway as if in a faint breeze and carrying with it a dank, musty smell. Crowely stiffened. 

“No,” he growled. Piss. Shit. _Fuck._ Crowley shoved off the sink, staggering down the hallway like a drunkard, which was particularly unfair considering he wasn’t even drunk. (And not for lack of trying.) With some effort he made it to the room housing his plants, and had to brace against the wall in shock and dismay at what he saw there.

White patchy spots marred all his plants, tainting far too many of their beautiful green leaves: mildew. The musty smell was worse in here, bad enough to make Crowley gag. And drifting through the air were more white patches, little clouds of contagion floating hither and yon like they had any fucking right to be there.

The realization of what was happening hit Crowley like a thunderclap. His knees buckled beneath him, and he slid down the wall with a loud groan that was meant to be furious but came out rather sickly. 

This was Pollution’s doing—Pestilence might have retired, but he’d taught his successor everything they needed to know. And with Pollution identified, it was all too easy to recognize the work of Famine and War in Crowley’s current state of affliction. 

They shouldn’t have been able to touch him at all. They were human plagues, human nightmares, and he was an occult being—but then again, was he, anymore? He hadn’t _thought_ his essential nature had changed, hadn’t felt any fucking different, but here he was, fighting with his angel and so weak with hunger and thirst he could barely walk. Pollution had come right into his home and sickened his plants, and he hadn’t even felt them enter. 

Crowley swallowed hard. He broke out in a fresh layer of sweat, enough to make all his clothes stick to his skin and his heart hammer in his chest. 

There was only one Horseperson left.

Crowley pushed himself off the wall, staggering back the way he came. He’d left his phone on the table next to the empty bottles of whiskey. He had to call Aziraphale, had to warn him. But he made it only halfway down the hall before his strength failed him and he toppled to the floor with a cry. 

He crawled. He dragged himself down the hall with arms and legs that increasingly refused to work, even as his mouth turned to ash and his head to dust. Crowley could feel his vitality leeching out of him, feel darkness dragging at his mind, pulling him downwards into oblivion. He groaned, pushed himself up off the floorboards, then collapsed, face-planting against fine wood. 

As he sank into the void, one last thing penetrated his fading consciousness. Out of the oblivion swallowing him body and mind, he heard a voice in the dark:

_Let there be light!_

* * * * *

The first thing Crowley became aware of was that he was very uncomfortable.

His back hurt. His neck hurt, too, and as a consequence he had a nasty headache. Also, he was incredibly thirsty.

The second thing he became aware of was that he was not, in fact, dead. This revelation was so profound that he sat up with a yell, whereupon he immediately regretted his decisions and flopped over onto his side.

“Ow,” he said out loud. 

Crowley took stock. He found himself lying where he’d collapsed the last time he had a mind to be aware of such things: right in the middle of the hallway between his greenhouse and his kitchen. That was… well, that was something, quality yet to be determined. 

Speaking of quality, abruptly he noticed that of the light. It was morning, which meant he’d spent at least one night unconscious on the floor of his fucking flat. 

“Fuck,” Crowley croaked, and then winced. His mouth and throat felt like a burnt-out field. 

He hauled himself up off the floor, wincing at the aches and pains making themselves known. He snapped his fingers, intending to summon a large jug of water to his hand.

Nothing happened.

Crowley paused. Took stock. Rooted around in the very core of his being, including all the bits that usually hung about in the aether instead of the mortal realm, like his wings and multitudinous manifestations of his incorporeal self. And came up extremely short. 

“What the FUCK,” he shouted. He paid for it seconds later when the effort sent him into a wracking cough. 

Crowley coughed until his eyes watered, having to put a hand out against the wall to keep himself steady. Then he went directly to the bathroom, a room he only bothered with so as to enjoy the enormous luxurious whirlpool tub, but which also came equipped with a full-length mirror.

His reflection confirmed his suspicions. First of all, his hair was a fright. Crowley would never tolerate such laziness with his corporation while not under great duress (like, say, being blasted with water in the middle of a burning bookshop), but right now his hair had a mind of its own: it was half flat to his scalp and half standing on end in the wrong direction, heedless of his ire. He had welts on his face from where he’d lain passed out against his own arms and hands. But worst of all were his eyes.

Crowley had always been very self-conscious about his eyes. They were the one part of himself he could not alter, no matter what corporation he used or how hard he tried. After a time he had decided to lean into them—they were his, after all, the most visible mark of being Fallen, of daring to ask questions and encouraging others to do the same. They were his golden mark of the beast, his yellow snake’s eyes, the window to the tarnished twist of aether that was his soul.

And now they were human eyes. 

They were still—well, Crowley was fairly certain he’d never met a human with eyes that particular amber, but the pupils were round now. Seeing someone else’s eyes staring back at him in the mirror was as visceral a shock as being struck. Crowley swallowed hard, an action that abruptly reminded him how thirsty he was. 

Right. He should. Fix that, probably. He walked to the kitchen on shaky legs, got out a glass from his cupboard, and filled the damn thing at the sink like some sort of plebe. (This time, drinking something worked.) It took four entire glasses of water before he was satisfied, whereupon he went for his cell phone still sitting on the table.

It wouldn’t turn on. It took Crowley an embarrassingly long time to realize that his phone wouldn’t turn on because it had no charge—had in fact not been charged the entire time he’d had it, and did not even possess a cord with which to be charged. 

“Fuck,” Crowley said, for the third time since waking up as human, and resigned himself to going to see what had become of the angel in person.

* * * * *

This was why, some thirty minutes later, he found himself running as fast as his stupid human legs would carry him while a fifty-something accountant huffed and puffed and chased him down the street shouting.

The Bentley wouldn’t turn on. Not only did it not have any gas, the tank he bought in the 60s having long since been used up, he didn’t have a key for it. Crowley would have called for a Lyft or an Uber, but that involved things like apps, which were for phones, which would also not turn on. The first four taxis that came by all ignored him for some reason. Crowley soon got so impatient that he decided he’d use the bloody Tube since some fucking _bastard_ decided to curse him with mortality. 

Turns out you needed actual money to use public transportation. Crowley had plenty of money, because shell corporations and money laundering and bribes were all part and parcel of a demon’s daily gig. But he usually just miracled cash out of his accounts (or someone else’s) when he needed it, and therefore had neither a debit card nor a PIN with which to use it. 

So he resorted to pick-pocketing a likely-looking target. Should be easy, right? He might not be fully demonic at the moment, but he still had six thousand years of practice at it. He was still himself, after all. 

Crowley was forced to amend his estimations of his own thieving abilities when the pasty-looking accountant not only noticed his five-fingered discount, he chased Crowley down the street in pursuit of the purloined wallet. Crowley would likely have gotten caught if not for taking a corner too fast, slipping on some trash, and tumbling down a small flight of stairs that led to a basement flat with an outdoor exit. He lay there dazed and aching as Hateful Accountant Man ran on, still shouting, and waited until his head stopped ringing before trying to get up.

Being mortal was garbage. (He was not _human._ He was mortal. It was different.) But Aziraphale would know what to do. His angel was brilliant, and would be able to sort something out, surely.

Crowley just had to keep telling himself that.


	2. like a stone: 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finds Aziraphale, and the two of them compare notes. Sadly, they don't know much more together than they did apart--aside from the fact that being mortal isn't as fun as pretending to be mortal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder this is the 2nd chunk of what used to be a VERY LARGE chapter one.

By the time Crowley finally got off at the Tottenham Court Road tube station—having wrangled an Oyster card, taken the Central line the wrong way for ten minutes before realizing his mistake, and then finally sorting out where he was meant to be going—his estimation of humanity had dropped to somewhere around the seventh circle of Hell. Humans were all well and good when one could stand back and admire (or loathe, or pity, or fight for) them, but existing as one was—_eurgh._

He was also annoyed to discover that his sunglasses made it impossible to see anything while in the Underground. He walked into four people and one tube column, swearing a blue streak at the former and suffering an urge to kick the latter. After that last one, Crowley reluctantly removed his shades. But so strong was his mental block against allowing others to see his eyes that he could barely keep it together on the subway train, breaking out into anxious flop sweat en route. Thankfully everyone seemed to have decided to give him a wide berth and do their best to avoid eye contact, which suited him just fucking fine. He put his sunglasses on again as soon as he emerged from the tube stop, slouching towards his destination.

Crowley’s mood improved somewhat when he turned a corner and saw Aziraphale’s bookshop was in the same place it always was. He blew inside like a tempermental ghost, the door banging on its hinges behind him. 

“AZIRAPHALE!” he shouted, and then stopped short. 

No less than eight people swung around to look at him. There were a half-dozen more beyond them wandering about the bookshop—browsing the books, _picking them up_ and looking through them, carrying a few under their arms! Ridiculous. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale stood in the center of the crowd, looking more or less as he always did in beige overcoat and vest and tartan everything else. The main difference was that now he looked more harried. His lovely platinum curls were frazzled and out of sorts. It looked as though he’d been dragging his fingers through his hair, which—Crowley glanced at the number of people in the shop. Yeah, that tracked.

“Out!” he shouted, waving his arms. “Shop’s closed, there’s to be—there’s an inspection. No more business today. Or any other days. Fuck off.”

He was met with a number of protests and baleful looks, but being currently mortal did not make Crowley the least bit friendlier as an individual. He unceremoniously shooed everyone out of the shop, plucking books from greedy fingers and physically pushing more than one person out the door before shutting and locking it behind them.

Crowley turned around, back pressed against the wood. For a moment he and Aziraphale just stared at each other. The end of their last meeting hung in the air between them, as though the echoes of their furious shouts still lingered. 

Then Crowley’s back twinged, a reminder of how he’d spent the rest of the night: unconscious on the floor, turning mortal.

“Angel,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale’s lower lip trembled. “Not anymore,” he said. 

_Shit,_ Crowley thought. The fear and distress in those two words was enough to make him weak at the knees. He took a deep breath, and found it did not help nearly as much as he’d come to understand. 

“You, too?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley steeled himself, then removed his sunglasses. Aziraphale took a sharp breath. “Ah. I see. Well.”

“Let’s have a look at the damage, then,” Crowley said. He pushed off the door, coming around to stand in front of Aziraphale, who looked back at him anxiously. Right. Couldn’t have that. If Aziraphale started crying, Crowley’s heart might actually stop, and neither of them knew CPR. 

Crowley rolled his shoulders, affecting a serpentine shrug. His human body did its best, but there was only so much one could do with normal human bones. “Do you want to go first, or shall I?” he asked, trying his damnedest to project nonchalance and confidence. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, clasping and unclasping his hands in front of himself. “I think at the same time should work, don’t you?”

“Why not,” said Crowley. They looked at each other for a moment, awkward. Then Crowley stepped in close, and simultaneously they extended a hand and gripped each other by the upper arm.

Crowley sent his awareness out, rolling through Aziraphale to see the extent of the changes. It was somehow easier with the angel than it had been with his own self, which was an existentially strange problem for future Crowley to deal with. Right now Crowley was glad he could manage it at all. It meant that perhaps the change wasn’t as complete as it could be.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. His voice was warm with relief. “I see your wings. They’re not gone, they’re just—”

“Yeah,” said Crowley distantly. His eyes were somewhere else, staring at the most bizarre thing he’d ever seen. Where Aziraphale’s full manifestation should be—huge and inhuman, as incomprehensible as he was terrifying, with a dozen wings and seven burning halos and _far_ too many eyes—was instead what looked like several boxes, stacked neatly on top of each other. This one had a stylized eye on it, that one had a burning halo, and so on. 

It was as though Aziraphale had been—disassembled, and all of his constituent pieces packed up neatly with appropriate labeling. All that remained unpacked were the wings he would manifest in his role as Principality: white, glowing faintly, and currently folded in neatly on themselves and tied up with a bit of twine. And they were…

Crowley squinted. Were they hanging from a _hook_?

Bugger. This was weirder than he thought. Weirder, and also somehow less violent than he’d been afraid of. Aziraphale’s wings hadn’t been ripped away; they’d merely been… removed from his person, and set aside for possible future use. 

But in the meantime, his initial conclusion still appeared to be correct. Aziraphale was—not quite human, but mortal, the pertinent aspects of his angelic self separated impossibly off from the rest of him. 

They broke away from each other, Crowley shivering as his vision returned to the mortal plane from the aether. He was so out of sorts that he couldn’t even have a moment of shivery appreciation at having had the chance to hold onto Aziraphale for a full minute. What utter bollocks.

“Fuck,” he said loudly. It appeared to be his word of the day.

“Quite,” Aziraphale said. He blinked a few times, brow furrowing. That was better than looking sad and useless, at least. “All your—your demonic parts are there, they’re just not, ah, with you at the moment. Disconnected.”

“So are yours,” Crowley said, disgruntled. “All folded up and packed into neat little boxes. Like an Ikea set waiting to be assembled.” (It bore mentioning here that Crowley had never personally assembled an Ikea set, despite having a significant hand in the company’s existence.)

“But we can still detect it,” Aziraphale said. His voice had turned thoughtful. “I remember everything. I can feel the lack where my wings should be. And I can still See.”

“Of course we can,” said Crowley. “What better way to remind us of what we’ve lost than making it so we can look but not touch?”

Aziraphale went back to wringing his hands. “So you think it’s a punishment?”

“Or revenge.” 

They quickly compared notes of what had happened, each to each. Crowley’s brand-new human stomach twisted painfully to hear Aziraphale tell him what it was like to try eating each of his favorite comfort foods and find that none of them satisfied, or even tasted good. “It was like eating cardboard,” he said mournfully. 

But somehow, Pollution’s trick was worse. Aziraphale’s books had come over all rotted and dank, exactly like Crowley’s plants. Crowley felt a stab of guilt at the realization he hadn’t even checked on his plants before running out the door, so intent was he on getting to Aziraphale. 

“Most of the books seem to have turned out alright, though,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound hopeful. “Only some of the ones nearest me were still off when I woke up today. I took them in the back to work on them, and while I was distracted people started coming into the shop.”

“Brilliant,” Crowley muttered. “Then it must have been Death who turned us mortal.”

“I didn’t really think this was Azrael’s style,” Aziraphale said slowly. “He never seemed… well, the vindictive kind.”

“Yeah, well, he’s the only one not accounted for, isn’t he,” Crowley pointed out. “And he’s _plenty_ vindictive. Who else would even have the power to do such a thing?”

Aziraphale was quiet. Crowley wondered what he was thinking. Hell might’ve come up with it, sure; they were probably never going to stop being sore over this particular betrayal. But whatever this was struck him as almost _too_ elegant for the likes of Hastur or Beelzebub.

In his personal opinion, Gabriel and Sandalphon (or Michael, the wanker) were more than capable of instigating this sort of fuckery. The real question was whether they’d think it _enough_ of a punishment. They’d been quite ready to burn Aziraphale to ash, after all—something Crowley thought it’d be another six thousand years before he was ready to even think about forgiving. 

Luckily, forgiveness had never been in his job description. 

After a few more minutes of comparing increasingly outlandish theories about what had happened and how to fix it—during which both of them stood around and were mutually very aware of how close they were still standing—they eventually gave it up as a bad job. Or rather, Aziraphale suggested they go get lunch, and they decamped to a nearby cafe. 

(What Aziraphale said was, “This is too much to deal with on an empty stomach, my dear—shall we?” To which Crowley responded by gesturing vaguely at the door and following the angel out.)

* * * * *

They tried to go to the Ritz. In fact, they got all the way there before realizing their mistake. It was only sheer good luck that another nearby cafe was also open and serving lunch. Crowley slouched insalubriously at the table, determined to radiate sullen menace despite being approximately only 10% demon at this exact moment. 

He was therefore quite surprised to find his abdomen clenching and twisting in renewed discomfort. This time, however, he at least knew what it was. “Bugger,” he muttered. Right. Humans had to eat in order to not die, or else Famine would be out of a job. Rat bastard. 

Crowley peered helplessly across the table at Aziraphale. “Say… what’s good here?”

Aziraphale stared at him. Then he positively lit up. “Oh! Will you be eating, then? The beignets are quite good. But they also do these little sausage pasties with sage that are just marvelous.”

“Ah,” said Crowley, in the tones of someone who has eaten exactly five things in his collective six thousand year existence—four of which were alcohol—and was quite flummoxed at the prospect of doing so now, in front of the being who was the expert on the subject. 

There was nothing for it. He ended up ordering several things Aziraphale suggested, which at least brought with it the benefit of having the angel beaming at him from across the table. Crowley’s satisfaction on that front lasted until the food came. He picked up the sausage pasty and immediately shoved almost half of it into his mouth, which was when he discovered that his immunity to heat was very much gone. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed. Crowley grimly bit off the part of the pasty that was in his mouth and attempted to chew, ignoring how his eyes watered at his burnt tongue. But snakes are not known for their chewing prowess, and although Crowley was mortal now, that did not translate to an immediate mastery of all things human. After a few moments of trying to convince his jaws to mash hot dough into bits and watching Aziraphale’s eyes widen in increasing dismay, he thought _bugger this_ and swallowed the lot.

Or tried to.

Five minutes and two rounds of the Heimlich later, Crowley stared at his plate, wondering if it was too late to call down to Hell and tell them that yes, actually, he’d love to come drown in holy water. Aziraphale had got past the “fussing at him” bit and was still profusely thanking the waiter who had leapt to Crowley’s aid. (He might not be fully angelic at the moment, but he was still charming enough to persuade the staff not to call an ambulance). It was lucky for the waiter that Crowley was not currently capable of miracling anything, or else the hapless hero might have found himself hit by a falling piece of debris off the nearby church out of sheer spite. 

They managed to get through the rest of their meal without any more excitement. While the last thing Crowley wanted to do was eat more, Aziraphale persuaded him that humans did, in fact, need to eat in order to pursue continued existence. Crowley refused to admit that the rest of what he ordered tasted wonderful.

Aziraphale paid for the bill. Having a bookshop where he did occasionally sell a book meant that he had a smallish supply of cash on hand—enough to get them by until they figured out what on Earth they were going to do.

* * * * *

By unspoken agreement, Crowley accompanied Aziraphale back to the bookshop. The idea of separating now was—well, not something he was prepared to deal with yet. But that meant that Aziraphale was there to bear witness to the next mortal ordeal Crowley got the blessed luck of dealing with.

Understandably, before they proceeded any further with investigating exactly what had happened to them, Aziraphale wanted badly to work on rescuing his damaged books. Crowley knew exactly nothing about rescuing damaged books but was fairly good at doing what Aziraphale asked of him, so he agreed to help. It mostly consisted of using soft brushes on the pages of dry books and corn starch on the pages of damp ones, a process which involved Crowley sneezing far more than he enjoyed. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, some forty minutes after their arrival back at the bookshop. Aziraphale looked up from the book he was cleaning. Crowley made a face. “Ah, that is—how much do you know about humans’… urges.”

Aziraphale stared at him. A particular shade of pink came into his cheeks, eyes just a little too wide. Belatedly, Crowley realized that Aziraphale had interpreted that question in exactly the wrong way—well, he wasn’t _wrong_ about Crowley’s interest, but the timing was very much off. 

“Not like that,” he said immediately. “No, it’s—there’s—” He gestured in frustration at his lower half, which had been sending him increasingly urgent messages the past half hour that _something_ needed to happen, and soon. “Something feels wrong. There’s—pressure.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Pressure?”

“I don’t know how else to explain it, angel!” Crowley hissed to himself, his bad mood fighting with his mortification for supremacy. “My insides feel like they’re about to burst, alright?” His own face was flaming, a heat that had nothing to do with infernal fire and everything to do with the deep humiliation of having to ask this kind of question in front of Aziraphale.

It took another two minutes of increasingly frustrated back and forth before Aziraphale figured out what was going on. He directed Crowley to the water closet in the rear of the bookshop along with some vague and somehow distressing instructions. Crowley went, face still burning. He emerged some ten minutes later with an aggrieved look on his face and a deep sense of betrayal towards his innards. 

“Everything all right?” Aziraphale asked, very tentatively.

“Humans are fucking disgusting,” Crowley said, and that was the end of _that_ conversation.

* * * * *

The rest of the day proceeded thusly. That is, mundane and far more human than a pair of immortal beings were really prepared for, despite having spent all of human existence amongst them.

It took about four hours of careful, tedious work, but Crowley managed to help Aziraphale do the most important bits of saving his mouldy books. The rest of it they’d have to leave to time. By this point more people were hovering around outside the shop now too. A few of them were peering hopefully through the window, no doubt elated at having dropped by when the owner appeared to actually be inside. 

Aziraphale, too, succumbed to the mortifying ordeal of being human some two hours after returning to the bookshop from the cafe. Crowley permitted himself a small measure of satisfaction at knowing he wasn’t having to go through this alone. Then he thought very hard about literally anything else until Aziraphale returned and they could go on with their glorified procrastination via rare book preservation.

(To be fair to both Crowley and Aziraphale, neither of them had ever been possessed of working kidneys before, much less a fully-fledged digestive tract. Their organs were as surprised as anyone else to suddenly be installed in brand-new mortal bodies, one of whom had a fondness for rich foods and the other with too much of a love for alcohol. It was going to be a complicated relationship, no two ways about it.)

“Alright, angel,” said Crowley, as Aziraphale carefully set the last of his damaged books on a shelf in the back room. “Now what?”

Aziraphale exhaled heavily. “I think perhaps we ought to go see Adam,” he said. “Don’t you?”

“Haven’t come up with any better ideas, so yes,” said Crowley. 

“Excellent,” said Aziraphale. “Can you dri—” He broke off, eyes widening slightly as something occurred to him.

“Can’t do,” Crowley said, before Aziraphale could get through whatever thought he was having. “No gas. No key.”

“Oh, I suppose not,” said Aziraphale. “Also dear, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you really are a terrible driver.” Crowley drew himself up, preparing for a bout of much-needed full-on righteous irritation (what Adam Young had just learned to refer to as “butthurt”) when Aziraphale added in a far too reasonable tone of voice, “Really, darling, be realistic. We can’t miracle pedestrians or other cars out of the way right now. What if you hit someone? What if it damages your Bentley?”

That brought Crowley up short. He scowled, stalking across the room to fling himself onto Aziraphale’s extremely comfortable couch. “_Fine_,” he said. “But I’m not leaving it to sit on the corner, either.” It was really unfair that Aziraphale seemed to be coping so much better with this situation than him.

Another thought occurred to him, this one almost as dismaying as the realization he couldn’t currently drive his beloved car. Humans loved to give parking tickets, especially in a big city like London. Crowley definitely didn’t have anything resembling a permit for his car. Fuck, what if they towed it? 

(Crowley had come up with that one. Really, the humans would have gotten to it if he’d left them alone long enough, but Crowley wanted to capitalize on the fact that driving one of these lovely vehicles came with a number of costly, annoying issues along the way, like gas and maintenance and parking, all the while ensuring he’d never have to deal with any of them himself. Until now, that was.)

“Well, perhaps we could hire a driver,” Aziraphale mused. “We need to work on arranging some payments and mundanities, certainly—”

Crowley groaned and threw an arm over his face. “How exactly are we going to do that?” he demanded, from beneath the cover of his own arm. “Just show up at the bank and say, ‘Hullo, here for a new bank card and some cheques—no, I don’t have an ID or the account number, nor can I prove that I legally exist, thanks ever so much’?”

“But I do have an ID,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley removed his arm from his face and stared at him. “What,” he said flatly.

“Check your wallet,” Aziraphale said.

“_What?_”

Aziraphale sighed. He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a completely normal leather trifold wallet, from which he produced a thin plastic card. Crowley all but vaulted from the couch, snatching the card from Aziraphale and squinting at it in disbelief. 

It was a UK driver’s license. (Boy, wasn’t that a fucking lark.) It had a picture of Aziraphale’s face, beaming his usual sunny smile. Aziraphale’s birthday was listed as February 5th, 1969, which—that wasn’t accurate, but nothing would be. It listed Aziraphale’s Soho bookshop as his home address, and for Aziraphale’s name it listed “Aziraphale Z. Fell.” As a reading experience, it was a bit like bashing your head into a low-hanging pot in the kitchen.

“The name is a bit off,” Aziraphale said. His tone was far too reasonable for the travesty Crowley just read with his own two eyes, which he’d only just gotten and would clearly have to be more careful with. Did human eyes go off like old milk? 

“Did you always have a wallet?” Crowley demanded, ripping his attention back to the present. Aziraphale shook his head. Crowley shoved his hands into his own pockets, suddenly certain that he was not only going to have a wallet but a bank card as well, and would therefore not needed to have been chased by one Norman T. Hughes, avenging CPA. 

What he pulled out was indeed a normal wallet, but there were no credit or debit cards within. Crowley was at once relieved and a little annoyed. But then he got to his own driver’s license, and any thoughts about bank cards went right out the window.

His address was correct, listing his Mayfair flat as his current residence. His birthday was listed as April 18th, 1971; Crowley didn’t know whether to be indignant or relieved to be legally younger than Aziraphale. His legal name was listed as Anthony J. Crowley, which was fine. But the picture— 

“What’s this photo playing at?” Crowley demanded, shriller than he meant to. His photo ID was a picture of a shining black snake with red belly and golden eyes, hissing demonstratively for the camera. 

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale, once he finally got Crowley to let him see the offending bit of plastic. “Now that’s just inappropriate.” Crowley did not for a second miss the way the bloody angel kept pressing his lips together in that particular way he had when he was trying not to smile or laugh at something. Bastard. He was lucky he was so charming.

(Crowley was less lucky on that front. Aziraphale’s innate charm had been a near-constant thorn in his side since the moment the angel had burst out with _I gave it away!_ in the Garden. That simple sentence had swept all of Crowley’s preconceptions about him over the side of the wall with one brush of those heaven-white wings. He’d never been the same since.)

After several more minutes of Crowley fuming and sputtering in outrage, Aziraphale finally managed to calm him down enough for them to sit and talk out next steps. It took a long while, most of the rest of the afternoon, in fact. This was partly because they were split between focusing on the problem at hand—that is, sorting out how to navigate the human world as mortal versions of themselves—versus figuring out who did this to them, why, and how to fix it. Aziraphale was unsurprisingly in favor of the former, while Crowley argued for the latter. 

Aziraphale won, though not before finally showing a few ruffled feathers of his own. “And what are we supposed to do when we find out who did this?” he snapped, voice tight. “March up to them and say, ‘I demand you put things right’? Anyone powerful enough to bind us into mortal form isn’t someone I want to go toe to toe with in this state, Crowley.”

Crowley opened his mouth, made a few incoherent noises, then shut his mouth again. There wasn’t really much he could say to that. That didn’t mean he was going to leave the topic be forever, but for now, Aziraphale had won. Five cups of tea (two spiked with whisky), three phone calls, and a lot of arguing later, they had at least the semblance of a plan. 

No one ever said it was a _good_ plan.


	3. like a stone: 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With little progress made at the end of their first day of living as mortals, new challenges arrive. (Or: Aziraphale finally figures out how to sleep, with a little help from Crowley.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chunk of the very large original 1st chapter. Sorry for the confusion! Read on for new chapter four!

Aziraphale’s insistence on keeping a land line instead of a mobile paid off, annoyingly. One of the people they called was Anathema. The witch was by far one of the most practical, intelligent humans they knew who also happened to know who and what they were. (Crowley pointed out that this wasn’t saying much, considering the other candidates included Sergeant Shadwell, a hapless computer deprogrammer, a retired oracle, and four eleven-year-olds, but they had to take what they could get.) She’d agreed that whatever was afoot needed investigating as soon as possible, and that they needed to come to Tadfield right away.

“She’s sending that young man of hers to collect us,” Aziraphale said brightly as he hung up the phone. “Apparently he’s in London today and tomorrow for some sort of—jobs fair, I think she said? But he can drive us when he heads home tomorrow. We have plenty to do in the meantime, I think.”

Crowley looked at him askance. “I’m not riding around in that blue monstrosity of his,” he said tartly. “Is it even meant to go on the highway?”

“That’s a bit much, considering the way you drive,” said Aziraphale, and now there was no disguising the twinkle in his eye. Crowley’s jaw dropped open in fresh outrage. “But I suppose there are other ways, if you’d rather not. We could hire a motorcar?”

Crowley made a face. They _could_, he supposed. But the idea of figuring out how to go about it when snapping his fingers would do literally fucking nothing was exhausting, especially on top of everything else they had to do. “No, let the witchfinder drive us,” he said. “I’ll just suffer.”

“That’s the spirit, dear,” said Aziraphale.

After that, they headed out; the bank wouldn’t be open for much longer. By the time they were done with their errands, they had dropped Norman Hughes’ wallet at the local post office to be returned—Aziraphale insisted—and they were both possessed of bank cards. (Crowley resolutely ignored the way the teller’s eyes got wide at the sight of his ID, preferring to focus on the convenience of the machine that could spit them out new debit cards the very same day.) They ate another meal, this time at a Thai restaurant Aziraphale favored down the street from the bank. Aziraphale paid. He in fact took great delight in producing his brand new bank card for the waiter while Crowley tried to pretend he could still see worth a damn with his sunglasses on in the dim lighting. 

(Aziraphale pointed out, very reasonably, that Crowley no longer strictly needed to wear the sunglasses. His human eyes were remarkable, certainly, but they weren’t _impossible._ Crowley could concede the point well enough, but some two thousand years of wearing various versions of sunglasses made it a habit that was hard to break. His wariness of humans seeing his real eyes was just as hard to let go of.)

Crowley used his own bank card to buy a shiny new laptop when they stopped to buy a charger for his mobile. He had a computer at home, of course, but seeing as he’d bought it over a decade ago and had been menacing it into staying in proper working condition, he had no confidence it would actually work in his current state.

The new laptop was magnificent. Humans were clever bastards when they wanted to be. Crowley thought it’d come in handy till they figured out what the fuck was going on. 

His good cheer at his new purchase lasted until they made it back to his flat in a cab Aziraphale called. Crowley produced a key card that had certainly not existed yesterday from his magical new wallet, walked inside, and was immediately hit with the smell of mildewed plants.

“_Fuck_,” he hissed. He dropped the laptop on the kitchen table and strode off down the hall.

A survey of his greenhouse revealed that the initial impression was worse than the reality; most of the plants appeared intact, with only a small number of them struck with the pestilence. Crowley noted with a pang of… something that the plants that had suffered mildew were all at the closest end of the room towards where Crowley had collapsed in the hall. 

Almost as bad as the indisputable touch of one of the Horsepeople was the fact that his plants utterly ignored him when he walked in the room. Where before there had been proper fear, now there was only indifference. He might as well be any other idiot human playing at keeping a garden.

“Can they be saved?” Aziraphale asked. He hovered anxiously at Crowley’s elbow, gazing at the ruined plants. 

“Maybe,” Crowley said. He stared at the pale spots, eyes lingering on the drooping leaves, the wilting stalks. “Mildew can usually be fixed if you catch it fast enough, but I dunno that I trust leaving anything growing that’s been touched by Pollution.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, in a particular tone of voice. Crowley glanced at him; Aziraphale looked uncomfortable. “I wonder if the same might be said of my books.”

“Hard to say,” Crowley said. Suddenly he found he was extremely tired. “Either way, I can’t be buggered tonight. Think I might just move these mildewed ones away for now and deal with it tomorrow.”

They did that, separating the mildewed fici from their healthier brethren. Crowley stood for a moment in front of his tainted plants, his thoughts fraying apart as they came into his weary mind.

There was a soft touch at his shoulder. Crowley turned to find Aziraphale withdrawing his hand as though afraid he was about to be scolded for his daring. The angel’s cheeks were pink, an expression on his face that Crowley was having difficulty decoding due to the sudden weight of fatigue dropping on him like a smothering cloud. 

“Crowley,” he said, and then stopped. The moment stretched out between them, potential sliding into awkwardness.

Crowley shook his head. “Let’s have a drink,” he said, and Aziraphale followed meekly behind him. 

On another night, when they were both themselves, one drink would have swiftly turned into three, then five, then multiple bottles. Tonight, they barely got through a bottle of wine before Crowley’s discouraged slouch became a near-horizontal lean of despair. His sunglasses were long since deposited on the table, the dim lighting of his flat absolutely useless for normal human eyes. 

Even Aziraphale was yawning. With an effort, Crowley stood. “C’mon, angel,” he said wearily. “Let’s give it a rest.” 

“I don’t—” Aziraphale shut his mouth, dismay coming over his face as realisation hit. “I don’t have any pyjamas,” he said instead, folding his hands in his lap. 

“I have some you can borrow,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale’s folded hands started fidgeting, then wringing. “I don’t know if sharing a bed would be very proper—” he began.

“Oh _come on!_” Crowley threw up his hands in exasperation, two glasses of wine and sheer exhaustion erasing his normal inhibition. He simply couldn’t process six thousand years of pining right now. “D’you really think that after stopping bloody Armageddon our former bosses will care that much more about us sharing a bed? And you can’t not sleep, Aziraphale, humans will actually die if they don’t get rest.”

Aziraphale by this point had turned rather pink again, although whether with drink or embarrassment Crowley truly could not tell. But there was still a stiffness to his spine, to his face. 

Crowley’s heart sank. He dropped his hands and sighed. “Never mind,” he said, turning away. “Forget I offered.”

“Crowley! Crowley, _wait._” Crowley made it as far as the door to the living room before Aziraphale caught up to him, coming round to stand in front of him. 

Aziraphale’s face was pained. “You don’t understand,” he said. Crowley raised his eyebrows. Aziraphale winced, then took a deep breath. “I—don’t know how to sleep and I’m embarrassed of doing it wrong in front of you.”

Crowley stared. “You what,” he said blankly. 

“It’s all very well and good for you,” Aziraphale said, sounding very cross indeed now. “You had Belphegor to teach you, you’ve always been very good at human vices. But I’ve—I’m not—”

“Oh, let’s not start this argument again,” Crowley said, but he was smiling. Aziraphale huffed, folding his arms over his chest. Crowley’s hands twitched with the sudden urge to reach out and touch that he was forced to stifle before he made this weird situation weirder. “It’s not something you can fuck up, angel. You just sort of lay there with your eyes closed in a comfortable position until your brain drifts off. Not a performance sport at all.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, very well,” he said. 

Being a demon with a vivid imagination, Crowley had entertained a number of fantasies about what might happen when—if—he finally got Aziraphale in bed with him. Some of them were very dramatic and over-the-top, involving everything from fancy toys to exotic silks to the shameless romance of rose petals and champagne. Some of them were less human-influenced and more celestial, involving mingling their essences in the nowhere space that their angelic forms occupied—knowing each other completely, lacing their very beings together. 

Exactly none of them involved crawling onto opposite sides of the same bed, facing opposite directions, and passing out to escape crippling exhaustion and the humiliating ordeal of being turned mortal.

* * * * *

Some odd number of hours later, Crowley opened his eyes.

It was still dark out. He peered at the clock on the nightstand, the excruciatingly modern one he’d picked out a few months ago. Three am. Bloody hell. 

It took him a moment to work out what had woken him. Crowley turned over and noticed that the other side of the bed was empty; a few moments later, he saw the light coming down the hall and did the math.

He seriously considered going back to sleep. But some niggling worry in the back of his mind made him get up instead. He got up, padding quietly down the long hallway back to the living room. Aziraphale was sitting on the couch, a notebook open in his lap. He’d found a pen somewhere and was scribbling line after line onto the blank pages.

He looked up as Crowley entered, a wan smile creasing his face. “Sorry to wake you, darling,” he said. “Turns out I’m as rubbish at sleeping as I feared. Couldn’t catch a wink.”

Crowley didn’t answer right away. Instead he came around the couch and settled next to Aziraphale, nodding at the notebook. “What’re you writing?”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. He glanced down at the notebook, smoothing out an edge that had gotten folded under his hand. “Making lists, I suppose.” 

“Lists,” Crowley repeated.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Of everything that we’ll have to get fixed. We need a garage for your Bentley, so she won’t get damaged or vandalized or stolen. I’ll need a bed of my own at the bookshop, so I don’t have to keep inflicting myself on you—” 

Here Crowley twitched minutely. But he was still so befuddled from sleep and from having been mortal for less than 24 hours that his brain simply couldn’t think of a suitable comment that would say what needed saying, and then the moment passed.

“—we’ll need to get your driver’s license fixed so that it actually has a picture of you on it, since we didn’t have time today. Much as I appreciate how handsome you are as a snake, I think it’ll make trouble.”

This, stupidly, got a response from Crowley’s flagging brain. He snorted. “It’s not the bloody driver’s licenses or cars that need fixing, angel,” he said.

For a moment, Aziraphale didn’t respond. Then his shoulders drooped. Crowley’s heart splashed into his stomach an instant before he heard Aziraphale say “I know, dear,” in the smallest, most pitiful voice. Oh, _Hell._

Crowley winced. “Sorry,” he said awkwardly. “It’s—”

“It’s a lot,” Aziraphale said. His voice was very quiet. “But we can only do what we can do. And—and I don’t have any idea how to fix this, I’ve been wracking my brain for everything I can think of, but I’ve never even _heard_ of beings like us being turned mortal, I would have said it wasn’t possible. I can’t—” 

His voice cracked on the last word. His expression slipped a little more, the mask of calm serenity crumpling to reveal the anguish hidden beneath. 

Crowley reacted without thinking. He scooted closer, reaching out and extending an arm the way Aziraphale had once extended a wing, as if with the length of a mere human arm he could protect the angel from this strange fate that had befallen them.

He wasn’t sure how Aziraphale would respond. He somehow wasn’t expecting Aziraphale to lean into him, to press against his side and turn his face into Crowley’s collarbone. 

Crowley froze. Fire raced through his body, heat like he’d never felt—not even in Hell—making every single one of his new human nerves tremble at attention. His body moved without bothering to consult with him, draping his arm very carefully around Aziraphale’s shoulders, as though afraid the angel would shatter if Crowley touched him wrong.

A moment later, Crowley realized that his assessment wasn’t far wrong: Aziraphale was shaking. 

His heart sank. “Aziraphale,” he whispered. He raised his other hand, taking one of Aziraphale’s and twining their fingers together. Aziraphale made a small, helpless noise against Crowley’s clavicle. Barely even audible, it still lanced through Crowley with the devastation of a blessed spear. 

They sat there like that on Crowley’s couch in the dim light of three am for what felt like ages but was probably only ten minutes. Crowley held Aziraphale against his side, hand in hand, stroking his fingers gently against the silk covering Aziraphale’s arm, trying with all his considerable ingenuity to think of something useful to say. 

Nothing came to mind. Not a damn thing.

It was more prolonged contact with the angel than Crowley had had opportunity for in centuries, thanks to changing human social mores. Neither of them were human—well, they _hadn’t_ been—but it would have drawn too much attention for them to bathe naked together as they had when public baths were fashionable, or for Crowley to fall asleep with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. Modern humans weren’t nearly as into casual touching between male friends, and so Aziraphale and Crowley had slowly had less and less opportunity to do more than shake hands or brush each other’s fingers when passing a bottle of wine between them.

For this reason (as well as the considerable depth of his unspoken feelings) Crowley found himself keenly aware of having Aziraphale this close. Under other circumstances, he would have greatly enjoyed the experience. He would have taken a somewhat undemonic delight in cataloguing all the various aspects of Aziraphale’s corporation: the astonishing warmth of his body, the softness of his hair, the familiar smell of his skin. 

(Crowley had a very keen scent memory. He could mark events and places to an exact point in time based on Aziraphale’s changing scents, his corporation having altered subtly but noticeably over the long centuries they’d spent on earth. His scent had been influenced by diet, by local laundry customs, by climate, and by whatever experiments with perfumed oils or cologne Aziraphale had indulged in at the time. But underneath it was always the faint scent of aether and pleasure—which was to say, ozone and rich vanilla.)

The particular wetness of Aziraphale’s tears against Crowley’s pajama top was less thrilling and more painful than the other sensations. It was also a rather forceful reminder that of the two of them, Crowley was the only one who’d actually experienced leaving Heaven. 

He’d never had any delusions that Hell was there to support him, and he’d already been cast out once before. But Aziraphale had not. The angel might not have lost his Grace, but he’d lost the light of Heaven’s approval, even if had been the one to reject it. Crowley might have wanted Aziraphale for himself, might have hated everything Heaven inflicted on Aziraphale and the humans in the name of righteousness, but that didn’t mean he welcomed watching Aziraphale suffer through the loss. 

Crowley’s throat tightened, salt pricking his own eyes despite his best efforts. What the fuck was _wrong_ with this body?

Aziraphale sniffled, drawing Crowley’s attention out of himself. “It’ll be alright, angel,” Crowley said. The platitude tasted empty on his (stupid, unforked) tongue, and he cursed inwardly. “We’ll—we’ll figure something out.”

“Of course we will,” said Aziraphale thickly. He sniffled again and sat up, dabbing at his eyes. Crowley snapped his fingers, instinctively reaching for a handkerchief, and then hissed an oath in Mesopotamian when he realized his mistake—out loud, this time.

“Use the sleeve, it’s fine,” he said instead. 

Aziraphale flashed him a wry smile that was a bit watery around the edges. “Being mortal is so undignified,” he said.

“Isn’t it, though,” said Crowley inanely. He waited a moment for Aziraphale to dry his eyes, then stood up. “Come on, you should come back to bed. Sitting out here making lists won’t do you any good.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Aziraphale. He stood as well, following Crowley down the hall back towards the bedroom. “I don’t expect I’ll be able to sleep much more, though. My mind just—doesn’t want to quiet down.”

The idea of Aziraphale lying sleepless and hurting in bed beside him was almost as upsetting as the idea of Aziraphale making anxiety lists on his couch. Crowley cast about for something to say or do that might help, and said the first thing that came to mind—namely, the thing that Aziraphale had done for him on a number of occasions when Crowley had wound up on his doorstep in the dead of night, too heartsick to be alone and made too powerless by the Fall between them to explain why. 

“I could read to you,” he said.

(Crowley had asserted on multiple occasions that he did not read. This was untrue. What was true was that Azirphale was possessed of a great many Opinions on Literature, and Crowley was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that Aziraphale would judge any and all of his book choices. Also, it was great fun to loudly proclaim how much he Did Not Read whenever he could, mainly because Aziraphale would always be grumpy about it.)

Aziraphale stopped as he came round the side of the bed, staring at Crowley. Crowley was just preparing to make a beeline for the window and climb out, seventh story be damned, when Aziraphale exhaled heavily and said “Really? Oh, that would be lovely.”

“Ah,” said Crowley. For some reason, he was shocked. He did a hasty recalculation, this time trying to recall what book might suit without incriminating him too badly on a number of fronts.

Ten minutes later, they both settled into bed. Crowley took one too many looks at Aziraphale’s worn, sad face and opted to give up what remained of his dignity by selecting the one book in his flat that he knew would cheer Aziraphale above all others. (The fact that Crowley himself had read the book so many times he had several passages memorized did not factor in, aside from the abject humiliation he was about to suffer.)

Naturally, because Aziraphale was still himself even while mortal, the teasing was more gentle and accompanied by pleased smiles than Crowley had been afraid of. Crowley thought that he might be able to deal with a good bit more humiliation from Aziraphale, if this was how it would go. 

“And here I thought you hated Austen,” Aziraphale said. He was curled on his side, one pillow beneath his head and another tucked in his arms. He looked very comfortable. Crowley stared perhaps a little too long at the very appealing sight of the angel curled up under the sleek black sheets of Crowley’s bed, wearing a pair of Crowley’s pajamas and watching him attentively, and then he snapped back to the comment at hand.

“Nah, s’all right,” he said. _I read it because it was your favorite and it makes me think of you,_ he did not add. “Still think the version with zombies is better, though.” 

(This was untrue. But there were only so many glimpses of his soft underbelly Crowley could allow in one night.)

Aziraphale huffed. “You refused to even go see the movie with me!”

“I saw the new one, wasn’t bad,” Crowley said. “That one with Olivier was garbage, though.”

Aziraphale made a show of rolling his eyes, but Crowley didn’t miss his smile. The angel snuggled into the bed, doing that little wiggle of his that had the curious effect of making Crowley’s mortal heart stammer distractingly in his chest. 

Crowley cleared his throat, cracking the book open and trying not to notice the way his face was burning. “'It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife’…”

Fifteen minutes later, Crowley paused, glancing over. Aziraphale’s eyes were shut, his expression smooth and sweet as the day they first met—the _first_ time they met, not in the Garden but Before. The one Aziraphale didn’t remember because all memory of the Fallen had been struck from the remaining host. 

Crowley wasn’t supposed to have remembered, but then he wasn’t supposed to have stopped Armageddon, either. He’d been mucking it up since the very beginning. No point in stopping now. 

So he didn’t. He carefully put the marker in the book and set it aside, and then he sat and watched the steady rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest as the angel slept for the first time in the whole of his existence. Crowley watched Aziraphale sleep and wondered what had happened to them, and how, and why—and whether being made mortal was meant to be a punishment, or a gift.


	4. letting the water fall: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley consult their friends in Tadfield, then get asked for a consult in turn. They find themselves no closer to figuring out why this has happened to them.
> 
> (Or: The Them have opinions, an angel and demon buy a car and sort out their flats, and Pepper has a secret.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first actual NEW new chapter. They'll be more this size going forward, and hopefully updated more regularly now that I have a handle on how I'm organizing this fic. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy! Many kudos to both seventhstar and circ_bamboo for their help with restructuring this!

“When did you say they’d be getting here?” Crowley asked. He sounded put out. Aziraphale glanced over and saw the demon slouched in his chair, a mug of steaming tea in front of him, untouched. He knew that at least some of Crowley’s sour mood was down to the fact that his hair was still rather too fluffy, despite their best efforts that morning. 

It was the next day. Both of them had woken up a bit more …fragrant than they’d gone to bed. Showering had been pleasant, but wearing clothes other than the ones Aziraphale was used to was less so. His jumper and button-down was all right, but the fit of the trousers was strange, and he felt nearly naked without a waistcoat. 

Crowley had fared better with clothes, having a larger wardrobe to start with, but his hair was another story. It had taken him nearly forty minutes to get his hair styled to his satisfaction (or at least, to a point where he was willing to leave the flat). 

“I didn’t say,” said Anathema. “But I expect they’ll be here soon. They like to stop by for a snack on their way home from school, if they see my bike or the car outside.” 

“Ngh,” said Crowley. He slouched harder in the chair, bent at such an angle that Aziraphale would’ve feared for the integrity of his spine had not he not known exactly how much practice the demon had at that particular activity. 

Anathema ignored him. She was over at the counter, arranging biscuits and slices of fudge onto a large platter. If the one-time prophesied descendent of Agnes Nutter, Witch, was at all put out at having recently dewinged supernatural beings in her house, she didn’t show it. A measure of self-possession was to be expected in someone who’d had so much of their life planned out for them, but Aziraphale was pleased to see she’d retained that trait even after choosing to discard Agnes’s guidance. 

“Thank you again for having us,” Aziraphale said politely. “And for driving us, Mr. Pulsifer.”

“Please, just Newt,” said the young man in question. He was sitting across from Aziraphale with his own mug of tea, still dressed in his ‘business casual,’ which Aziraphale thought was rather stylish and which Crowley had described as ‘nerdcore’ while Newt was out of the room. “And of course, it was no trouble.”

At this, Crowley made an offended noise into his mug of tea. Aziraphale kicked him under the table, and Crowley shot him a baleful glare over the tops of his sunglasses. Against anyone else, it would have been deeply intimidating even now, but Aziraphale just ignored him in favor of beaming at Newt across the table. 

(To be entirely fair to Crowley, cramming themselves into the back of the Reliant Robin was not the most comfortable experience Aziraphale had ever had. It wasn’t Newt’s driving that was the problem. Newt was a passable driver, as humans went, and at any rate Crowley had no room whatsoever to complain about other people’s driving. 

No, it was just that Newt’s car was three loose bolts away from pure annihilation, and its shocks had clearly been designed by someone who thought feeling every single bump and pothole in the road was a feature, not a bug. When they finally arrived in Tadfield, Aziraphale had to sit on his hands to stop himself checking if any of his teeth had rattled out.)

“All right,” said Anathema. She came over to the table, setting the platter in the center. “Just so I’m clear. Day before yesterday, you were both yourselves—”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “An angel and a demon, respectively.”

“—and then the next day you woke up human?”

“Not human,” Crowley said flatly. “Mortal.”

Newt frowned. “What’s the difference?”

“I’m about six thousand years older than any human alive, for starters,” said Crowley. Newt leaned slightly backwards in his seat, as if afraid Crowley might revert to a snake and start spitting venom at him. 

On another day, Aziraphale might split hairs. But he knew better than to get into an argument about semantics with Crowley when he was in this sort of mood, especially when far too much hinged on their exact definitions. Instead, Aziraphale turned towards Anathema. 

“There was something in between,” he said. “Each of us was, ah—afflicted, you might say, by one of the Four Horsemen.”

“Horsepeople,” Crowley said. Aziraphale tipped his head at the correction. “And yes. We had a huge row over absolutely nothing, then I went home and went half-mad with thirst but nothing would suit. Then I noticed all my plants had gone mildewy and rotted, and then I—” His voice faltered. Aziraphale glanced over at him, but the demon’s face was an unreadable wall, eyes hidden behind his dark glasses. “I passed out,” he said after a moment. 

“My experience was similar,” Aziraphale said, as much to corroborate as to draw attention away from Crowley. “I was ravenous, but food turned to ash in my mouth. My books came over all dry-rotted, and then I was overcome with exhaustion and despair and collapsed on the floor.”

Anathema was frowning now. She leaned forward, eyes clear and brown behind her sharp glasses. “Do you think it’s a punishment for interfering with Armageddon? That your superiors decided to take a different approach, since they think you can’t be killed?” 

They had filled Anathema in on Heaven and Hell’s previous actions against them yesterday over the phone, when she’d asked for background. Aziraphale had rather been hoping she might have more for them when they arrived today, but then again she no longer had a book of prophecy to refer to. (The news that she had, in fact, had a new one but had chosen to burn it sat like mouldy bread in Aziraphale’s stomach, but it wasn’t like he could do anything about it now.)

At her question, Aziraphale spread his hands. “I just don’t know,” he said. “Officially, Heaven doesn’t like to associate itself with the Horsepeople, but they’ve worked together now and again before this. But I really thought we’d scared them into leaving us alone for a while.”

Dread trickled down his spine like cold water as he said this out loud. To distract himself, he reached out and plucked a few tasty-looking biscuits from the plate, then took two pieces of fudge as well. It wouldn’t do to waste perfectly good tea, after all. A very small smile flickered over Anathema’s face and was gone. 

“I still think it’s too subtle for Hell,” said Crowley. “And their grudge is too personal. They’d want to make sure we knew who’d inflicted all the suffering, not let us waffle about like this.”

(Aziraphale bit his lip. While it was true that Crowley had taken all the subtlety in Hell with him when he left, that did not mean they were the only ones inflicting any suffering. Crowley had dragged him out shopping for more clothes that morning—he’d pointed out that if Aziraphale kept wearing all his favorites from the eighteen and nineteen hundreds, they’d get worn out and dirty in no time. It didn’t bear thinking about.

As a result, Aziraphale had had to subject himself to _fast fashion_ and the indignity of modern styling. By the fourth store on Bond Street, he’d been so flustered that he’d retreated immediately to the fitting rooms and let Crowley bring him a selection of things to try on. Now he had a decent number of outfits he could wear, but at what cost?)

“This is very interesting,” said Anathema. “And you think Adam might have done it?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment the doorbell rang. As if his name had summoned him, the Antichrist himself was on the step, all smiles and loud chatter as he led his little band into the house. 

“Oh, it’s you two,” said Adam as he caught sight of Aziraphale and Crowley. The former Hellhound barked from the vicinity of his feet, then wandered off into the cottage. “What are you doing here?”

“The world’s not about to end again, is it?” This boldness came from the best-dressed and sharpest-eyed of Adam’s friends. She shot Aziraphale a very stern look, as if he was personally responsible for this possibility. 

“Not quite,” said Aziraphale. “Hello again.” He gave a little wave, one that the smallest and most bespectacled child returned.

Conversation paused for a moment as Anathema went to get all the children plates and glasses of milk. They all spent a few minutes enjoying Anathema’s excellent tea snacks—well, all of them except for Crowley, who was abstaining either on principle or spite. Then Adam set his glass down and fixed Aziraphale with a thoughtful look.

“Why’d you take your wings off?” he asked. Crowley choked on his tea.

“I was rather hoping you might be able to tell us, actually.” Aziraphale could not quite keep the anxiety from his voice. “So you can see it?”

“Yeah, I can,” said Adam matter-of-factly.

“See what?” asked the dirtiest of his friends. 

Adam gestured. “They both had wings before, an’ now they don’t.” 

The bold one—Pepper, Aziraphale thought her name was—gave Adam a Look. “I don’t recall them having any wings.”

“You couldn’t see them, they were somewhere else,” Adam said sagely. All three of his friends went _ahh_ in a knowing tone, as if wings hiding in alternate planar realities was a common thing for their group. “But they had ‘em. His were white, and his were black, like a pair of swans. But they’re gone now.” Adam frowned. “The glowy business is gone, too.”

“Your auras do look a little different,” said Anathema. “They’re not as intense as they were. Same color, though.”

“What does _that_ mean?” demanded Crowley, sounding aggrieved. 

No reason to beat about the bush, Aziraphale supposed. “Adam, we were attacked by the Four Horsepeople,” he said. Adam’s eyes widened. “We’ve been made mortal. We thought perhaps you would know what happened, or how to fix it.”

“Don’t think I can fix it,” said Adam. “I mean, I could have done, before, but not anymore.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. His heart sank. He hesitated a moment before venturing, “Could you at least try, dear boy?”

Adam’s nose wrinkled. He studied Aziraphale and Crowley for several seconds as everyone else waited. Aziraphale did his best to keep a straight face and not let on the fact that he’d immediately started to sweat under his new cable jumper. 

(That morning while trying things on, Crowley had made a saucy comment about Aziraphale’s inability to wear any outfit that consisted of less than three layers. Aziraphale had accused him of cheek at the time but was now regretting his outfit choices for different reasons. He never felt this warm in his clothes, normally.)

Finally, Adam shook his head. “Can’t be undone,” he said. “Not by me, anyway.”

Crowley sat up, planting his hands hard enough on the table that Aziraphale knew he’d been holding his breath just as Aziraphale had. “Just try,” he said, voice tight. “You’ve done bigger, crazier things, are you sure you can’t—”

“That was before,” Adam said. His voice was reasonable, unassailable, the assurance of a boy who knew exactly what he was about. (Being the former Antichrist might’ve factored into it a bit.) “Can’t do quite as much now. But even if I could do, I wouldn’t. Bad idea.”

Aziraphale gaped. “How is it a bad idea?” he demanded. “You’re not—you’re not changing anything, you’d just be putting us back to rights!”

“He’s right, you know,” said Anathema, speaking up. (The rest of the people in the room had looked much like spectators in a tennis match, gazes ping-ponging back and forth as Aziraphale and Crowley traded conversation with Adam.) “We think this is some kind of punishment for the two of them going against orders from their superiors. And if that’s true, they got punished for helping _us_. Humans.” She looked meaningfully at Adam; Aziraphale felt a warm glow of appreciation at her for speaking up. 

At this, Adam looked abashed. “That’s true,” he said. “They already tried to mess you about pretty badly, didn’t they?”

“How do you even know—” Crowley began, and then he snapped his mouth shut. 

“That’s correct,” Aziraphale said. “Adam, if there’s any way you can—”

“I can sort of see what was used to box all your other bits off like that,” said Adam, continuing as though he was talking about nothing more uncommon or complicated than the weather. “I can see the energy, like. And—you know how some people’s houses look really friendly, like you could just come up to their front door and knock and you know they’d invite you in for tea and biscuits?”

“Like Betsy Davies’ house,” said the bespectacled boy. The other three Them nodded sagely. “Her mum makes _amazing_ bread pudding.”

“And there are some houses where you know just from looking that not only will they not invite you in for tea and biscuits, they’ll shout at you for even knocking at the door? Even if you were just telling them they’d left the gate open, or their dog had gotten out.”

“Like Greasy Johnson’s family,” supplied Pepper, to another round of nods. “S’no wonder he’s such a prat, with a family like that.”

“Just so,” said Aziraphale, whose patience by now was as thin as angel hair—which was to say, infinitesimally. “But as I am sure you can see, neither myself nor Crowley is a house, so—”

“That’s what the energy bindin’ the two of you up looks like,” said Adam. “Like a big unfriendly house with a mean fence and a sign in the window that says ‘BEWARE OF DOG.’” Here he paused and leaned down to pat his own Dog, who had reappeared at his ankle and was panting hopefully for treats. “It’s just screamin’ not to be messed with. Pretty sure that even if you’re not keen on how things are now, something _even worse_ would happen if I tried to change anythin’.” 

Aziraphale needed several moments to digest this, both metaphor and the news contained therein. He disguised his frustration with more literal digestion, snagging another piece of Anathema’s excellent fudge. (He had been afraid his human form would not be able to fully appreciate flavors the way his angelic one did, but thus far he’d been able to detect no changes, so that was something, at least.) 

No one else said anything for several seconds. “So you don’t think you can fix it, and if you tried, we’ll just explode or something,” Crowley said at last. Adam nodded. Crowley made a disgruntled noise and dropped his chin into his hand. “Bloody brilliant.”

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale. He folded his hands in his lap and looked down at his empty plate. “Now what?”

It had largely been intended as a rhetorical question, but being in a room full of eleven-year-olds meant that he got answers anyway. Most of them were about as useful as one might expect— (“Send a strongly-worded complaint!” “Download Minecraft!” “Run away to Australia!”) but the one that stood out to Aziraphale was Pepper’s.

“My great-aunt Bev knows just about everyone important in London,” she said. “She’s got loads of great ideas, always doing something brilliant. You should ask her.”

“Yes, because your great-aunt is going to know how to fix a bloody _angel and demon_ stuck in mortal forms,” Crowley hissed. By now he had sunk so low that his chin was on the table, one hand dragging distractedly through his hair.

“Didn’t say that,” Pepper said archly. “Anyway, you asked.”

“Just so,” said Aziraphale quickly, before Crowley could descend any further into catatonic despair. “Well, thank you so much for your time, and for the insight, Adam. I expect we should be letting you get on with things. We’ll just be getting going—”

They (well, Aziraphale) thanked everyone profusely, promising to ring them with updates when they had them, and then quickly left the house. This was about when Aziraphale realized that they had gotten to Tadfield via Newt, and that short of legging it back to London, they did not actually have a way to get home. 

“Oh, bugger,” he said. Close by, Crowley choked on a laugh.

* * * * *

They ended up staying the night at an inn a short walk from Jasmine Cottage. The inn had a pub attached, which served both respectable food and a fairly impressive selection of beer. After the past day or so, Aziraphale found himself in need of quite a lot of beer, and Crowley was, as ever, amenable.

He was considerably less amenable the next day when the two of them had to nurse their all-too-human hangovers all the way home to London, curled miserably in the back of their hired car. Overall, Aziraphale found he could not recommend the experience. 

After that, a few weeks passed without any sort of fanfare. Most of it was taken up with the kind of mundanity that humans dealt with after a large move. This specific move was more of person than of house, but the particulars ended up being similar. 

It was lucky they were both phenomenally wealthy after eons of keeping human finances, because they had to buy a great number of things: more clothes, household appliances (an electric kettle, a French press, actual dishes), a bed for Aziraphale’s flat*, towels and toiletries**, a car***. 

(* Through unspoken agreement, Aziraphale and Crowley were now spending almost every single day—and night—together. The first night Aziraphale tried to sleep alone from Crowley after they were both turned mortal, the demon turned up at the front door of the bookshop at three in the morning, announced “Couldn’t sleep” to the air near Aziraphale’s shoulder, and face-planted into Aziraphale’s brand-new bed. Aziraphale had considered bringing it up the following morning, but he rather fancied being able to actually hold a conversation with Crowley that day, so he opted not to mention it. But the revelation that he wasn’t the only one having trouble coping with mortality was a comforting one.)

(** Personal hygiene wasn’t a totally new experience for either of them, but Aziraphale found having to clean himself as well as his things on the regular was rather tedious. And he had no idea how to make his hair _do_ anything. Neither did Crowley, although he figured it out rather sooner than Aziraphale did, thanks to some website that had to do with tubes that Aziraphale was still unsure about. But the sight of Crowley’s hair sticking up in a manic pouf, like some of the birds they fed at the park had nested there overnight, was not a sight Aziraphale would soon forget.)

(*** Buying the car was an exercise in demon wrangling. Aziraphale could teach a class at this point, honestly. At first, Crowley had flatly refused even the idea of driving any vehicle that wasn’t his beloved Bentley, which by now had been relocated to a very expensive private garage, there to be visited regularly by Crowley. But Aziraphale had very reasonably pointed out that if Crowley actually wanted to drive the Bentley again, he had to learn on _something_, and didn’t it make more sense to buy something that he wouldn’t feel bad about if it got a bit banged-up in the process?

This was how they ended up with a two-year-old Ford Fiesta—cherry-red and cute as a button. Aziraphale loved it immediately, which was rather unfortunate, since Crowley was the one driving and loathing the car with every fiber of his being. It didn’t help that the car had lots of new ‘safety features’ that mostly amounted to beeping scoldingly every time Crowley drove it in a way the car didn’t approve of, which was to say, constantly.)

While they both agreed that it made more sense to just have one set of everything while they sorted out this whole “being mortal” business, neither of them was quite prepared to give up their own space yet. But Crowley’s flat was bigger and had more room, which was why he ended up with the gas stove, all the cooking appliances, and the espresso machine—not that either of them had the least idea how to use them. This, too, was another wrinkle in the whole tapestry of toiling through mortality. 

The fact was, both of them were pretty terrible at cooking. Aziraphale, who knew exactly how most things were supposed to taste when done well, found it particularly distressing. Not only did making food that tasted good (as opposed to merely being edible) take far longer than he’d anticipated, but also he could no longer taste the love put into well-crafted food by a talented chef. (This last part was probably a blessing in disguise, considering Crowley made and ate food the same way he took the Tube: grudgingly and with deep resentment.) 

Crowley brought him home some frozen dinners and cup ramen, which offended Aziraphale all the way down to his core. Food was meant to be _enjoyed_, not endured. As a remedy to this, Aziraphale briefly attempted to simply dine out in lieu of cooking. Soon, though, he found that his mortal body did not exactly cope well with eating rich food at every meal. 

“We’re just going to have to learn to make our own food sometimes, angel,” said Crowley, once Aziraphale had settled on the couch with some ginger tea and a sense of deep betrayal towards his stomach. “If the humans do it, it can’t be _that_ hard.”

He wasn’t wrong, but in the face of everything else on their plate, learning to cook fell to the bottom of their list. Aziraphale kept promising himself he’d get to it, but dealing with all the rest of mortality was so exhausting and tedious that he simply couldn’t find the energy right now. He resigned himself to eating the least insulting no-prep foods humans could produce and tried not to think about how many of them Crowley had had a hand in inventing. At least sandwiches were fairly difficult to mess up. 

Because in addition to arranging all the things humans had to deal with on a regular basis—food, clothing, paying bills, the lot—Aziraphale was still hard at work researching how to fix their current dilemma. He was either poring over his own collection of books or out at libraries and rare book shops, looking for any possible lead he could find on how to revert mortal forms to the star-stuff they had come from. 

He wasn’t alone, either. He was in regular contact with Anathema, who had volunteered to help—possibly as a distraction from the fact that she now had a great deal of time that wasn’t taken up by researching prophecies about the end of the world. But she was extremely good at research, for a human.

So when Aziraphale got a phone call from a Tadfield-area number on the mobile Crowley had insisted he get, one afternoon at the bookshop some four weeks after he woke up mortal, he was more than happy for a distraction. The only thought that registered before he answered was that whoever it was wasn’t Anathema, as her number was programmed in. “Hello?” 

“Is this Mr. Fell?” said a girl’s voice. Aziraphale recognized it after a moment as the voice of Pepper, one of Adam’s friends.

“Yes, my dear,” said Aziraphale, nonplussed. “What can I do for you?”

There was a pause. “I need some help,” said Pepper. She sounded strange. Aziraphale immediately came to full attention. He knew that tone of voice; he’d heard many a human use it over the eons, usually when they were tying themselves in a knot about something.

“Well, I’m more than happy to help, of course,” said Aziraphale. 

It took Pepper a good five minutes to get out what she’d called about, during which Crowley noticed the call and came over to hit one of the mysterious pictures on the screen that turned the mobile into a loudspeaker. Finally, though, she managed to ask Aziraphale to meet her in London that afternoon, where she’d be in town with her mum meeting great-aunt Beverly. Aziraphale agreed immediately, exchanging a look with Crowley once they’d hung up the call.

“What do you think that’s about?” he said.

“Dunno,” said Crowley. “Bit strange she’d call us, though.”

“Quite,” said Aziraphale. 

There was no question that either of them would have turned her down, even if it was Crowley she’d called instead of Aziraphale. But Pepper had no way of knowing that—and what’s more, Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder why she’d ask the two of them when she had three trusted friends and two human adults in Anathema and Newt much closer in age and experience to her own. 

There was only one way to find out.

* * * * *

They met Pepper at an ice cream store down the street from her great-aunt’s flat. Aziraphale bought all three of them ice creams—Aziraphale a 99 Flake, Crowley a strawberry popsicle, and Pepper a Cornetto—and then they walked down the street to a park.

“Now what seems to be the matter?” Aziraphale asked again, once they’d been walking for a bit and had exhausted the topics of the weather and the mysteriousness that was thirty-two flavors of ice cream.

Pepper bit her lip. She didn’t seem to be able to meet their gazes. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, who shrugged. Finally, Pepper took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and said, “My dad called me last week.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale.

Pepper looked at him. “We don’t talk,” she said. “He’s not—he’s not married to my mum, hasn’t been with her since before I was born. Last time I heard from him was a card I got five years ago.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale again, but in a very different voice. “I see.”

Crowley went still. Aziraphale glanced at him and saw the sudden set of his shoulders, the careful, deliberate way he slouched against the park bench. That was a slouch with _intent_. It was the sort of slouch Aziraphale typically saw on him when the demon was preparing to do a hefty load of brooding, or maybe a full-on sulk. 

Pepper was silent. She was glaring at the ice cream in her hand as though it was personally responsible for her father’s myriad offenses. 

“Go on, my dear,” said Aziraphale gently. “What did he want?”

Pepper pressed her lips into a tight line. Aziraphale sat forward, already wondering what the next step would be to try to draw it out of her, when Pepper burst out, “He wants to be my dad! He—he thinks he can just _turn up_ now, after being gone my whole life, and that I’ll just be fine with it!” 

“Rubbish,” said Crowley, voice dark. He was looking at Pepper over the tops of his sunglasses. “What did you say to him?”

Pepper lifted her head. There was a stubborn set to her jaw now that Aziraphale quite approved of. “I told him to leave me alone,” she said. “And that he wasn’t to bother my mother, either.”

“Very good,” said Crowley. The warmth in his voice put Aziraphale in mind of the demon in nanny’s clothes, crouched next to Warlock in the sunny garden behind the Dowling’s estate. Aziraphale swallowed against the sudden knot in his throat. 

For a moment, Pepper looked pleased. Then the smile faded. “I don’t know if it is, though,” she said. Her voice was very small. “Aren’t you supposed to want to have parents in your life? Everyone’s always on about how important it is to have a ‘two-parent household’ and I, it’s just—what if I got it wrong?”

Aziraphale’s heart ached. He’d only met Pepper a handful of times, but it hurt to see her so unsure of herself. “I’m afraid there isn’t really a right or wrong in this situation,” he said gently. “It’s your life. You’re the one who gets to decide how it should look. Do you want him there?”

At another time, Aziraphale might have urged Pepper to accept her father back into her life—to give the man a chance, to see if they could be a family and indulge in some divine forgiveness. But something stayed him from that advice now. He’d recently had occasion to realize just how dangerous it was to assume your family of origin always knew what was best for you. (Or for the rest of the world, for that matter.)

“It’s just—” Pepper took a moment to eat a bit more of her ice cream before it gave up completely and melted right off the cone into her lap. “It’s just—he hasn’t _been_ here. My mum raised me, her and her sisters and the rest of the family, and he was still off in some cult. I wasn’t important enough to even call until now.” Her lip trembled, and she glared at her ice cream cone again until the tremble went away. 

“That’s rubbish,” said Crowley sharply. He straightened, turning so he was angled towards Pepper, who was seated between him and Aziraphale on the bench. His expression was fierce; for a moment Aziraphale was certain that his Hellfire had come back all at once, but no, it was just Crowley. 

“It’s not fair for him to just show up now and want to pretend at being a good dad ten years into things. A _good_ parent would have wanted to be there, no matter how hard it was. A _good_ parent would make sure you knew you were important. He can sod off.”

Pepper was staring at him, eyes damp and a little wide. “That’s how I feel, but...” _Oh,_ the waiver in her voice hurt Aziraphale. “That’s not—isn’t that rather—ungrateful of me?”

_Am I a bad person?_ she asked but did not say. She was far too young to be having to ask herself this, and yet here she was. Aziraphale did not need his angelic empathy to be able to feel the anxiety coming off her in waves. 

Crowley’s hands clenched, then relaxed. His jaw worked. “Pepper, my dear, we don’t know you well, so forgive me for being bold,” Aziraphale said, cutting in to give Crowley time to recover. Pepper turned towards him. “But I very recently witnessed you helping Adam remember what’s important in life. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders. I think you know what you want, and it’s okay to feel that way.”

“It’s not wicked to not want someone in your life who didn’t want you,” Crowley added. His voice sounded a little strange. “You’re not doing anything wrong, Pepper.” 

Pepper blinked at them a few times, rapidly. All three of them spent a few moments focusing on finishing their ice creams and busily not noticing the dampness on her cheeks. 

“Thanks,” Pepper said eventually, sounding much more solid. 

“You’re quite welcome,” said Aziraphale. Crowley grunted, which could have meant anything but Aziraphale knew perfectly well actually meant _don’t mention it, I’m a demon, or was, anyway demons aren’t nice so there’s nothing to thank me for_.

“Only, please don’t mention this to anyone,” Pepper said. She squared her shoulders. “I don’t want anyone to know about—him. All my friends have got good fathers, and Anathema and Newt will just fret. I don’t want any of them knowing any more about how rubbish mine is than they already do. Not that it matters because my mum is _amazing_, actually, but, well.”

Aziraphale, who after all knew exactly what kind of father issues Adam Young had, simply nodded. “Of course, my dear.”

* * * * *

They walked Pepper back to her great-aunt’s flat and said good-bye. Crowley suggested they go do some errands while they were out, which Aziraphale agreed to happily enough. But the conversation with Pepper ate at him. It was an unpleasant reminder that humans had far more dangerous territory in their lives to navigate than how best to fix their dinner or what clothes to wear—to say nothing of the unique kind of trouble friends of the Antichrist might come up against.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one brooding on it. Crowley said nothing at all for almost an hour, the two of them stopping for groceries and heading back to the bookshop. It wasn’t until Aziraphale was actually putting the groceries away that Crowley huffed and set his elbows on the counter.

“You don’t think anyone’s going to mess with them, do you,” he said. 

Aziraphale did not have to ask who he was talking about. He set the gallon of milk carefully on the counter, exhaling slowly. “I don’t know,” he said. 

“They’re just _kids_,” said Crowley. 

“Never stopped either of our sides before,” Aziraphale said. Crowley scowled. “I suppose we’ll just have to keep an eye on them.” For all the good it would do, he did not add. 

“Ugh,” said Crowley, and went to the cupboard where Aziraphale kept the whiskey. When he poured them both a glass, Aziraphale did not argue.


	5. letting the water fall: 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley get yet more entangled with their humans, biting off a bit more than they can chew in the process. But when a Heavenly emissary confronts them, they discover they're in deeper waters than they realized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for reading! I will be trying to update every 7-10 days - I have about the next 4 chapters written and mostly edited, and I'm trying to get a queue set up so that posting during Nano isn't a shitshow. Extra kisses to my betas this week for doing double duty and reading two chapters back to back so I could get the pacing right. 
> 
> HEADS UP, warnings for mention of transphobia in conversation in this chapter.

They got a phone call from Pepper some five days after they saw her. “Are you busy tomorrow afternoon?” Pepper asked, with the bluntness of self-assured children everywhere. “My great-aunt wants to meet you.”

“Uh,” said Aziraphale intelligently. Crowley gestured, and Aziraphale handed him the phone so he could do the speaker business with it again. “Well, we’re available. But why is it your aunt wants to meet us?”

“I told her about you,” Pepper said. Aziraphale could hear her eye-roll all the way from Tadfield. “Said you’ve both got loads of time on your hands since you just retired and that you were friends of Adam’s family.”

Crowley made a face. Aziraphale tried to decide if he was offended by this description or not, then decided it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t as if they were busy. “We’d love to come,” he said firmly, ignoring the way Crowley’s jaw dropped open in outrage. “What time?”

“Four,” said Pepper, and she gave them an address. “Don’t be late!” She hung up before Crowley could sputter a protest, leaving Aziraphale to wrangle a put-upon demon into attending the social call he’d just volunteered them for. 

Naturally, Aziraphale won. This was how they found themselves sitting on an overstuffed couch in an elegant Notting Hill flat, sipping a very nice Oolong tea across from possibly the most intimidating human Aziraphale had met since Eleanor of Aquitaine. 

“It’s lovely to meet you both,” said Beverly Rosenberg. She was a handsome woman in her seventies, with crow’s feet at the corners of sharp brown eyes not the least diminished by age. Her yellow sundress was a striking contrast against her brown skin, her dreadlocks piled atop her head in an elaborate updo. Her pronunciation was posh, but Aziraphale thought he detected an American accent under a decade or two of British living. “I’m so glad you decided to come—you’re friends of Adam’s, is that right?”

“His godparents,” Crowley said blandly. He’d taken off his sunglasses, but only after Aziraphale’s elbow had lodged meaningfully in his ribs. Aziraphale gave Beverly a sunny smile by means of endorsing this statement, and tried not to let on how fervently he hoped she didn’t look into the whole ‘godparents’ thing too closely. It wasn’t as if he could just miracle it true at the moment, after all.

“Of course,” said Beverly. She leaned forward, setting her mug and saucer on the coffee table. “How lovely of you to take an interest in his friends. Pepper’s mentioned you—you’ll have to come over for dinner properly, when you’re free.”

Aziraphale suffered a little stab of anxiety at the thought of what Pepper might have said. What had he gotten them into?

As it turned out, the business about them being at loose ends due to retiring was mostly what Pepper had mentioned. (Aziraphale couldn’t help but be a little offended at the implication that Pepper apparently thought they needed something to do with themselves. Really, the cheek of her. It wasn’t that she was totally wrong, it was just—they were—well, it was _complicated!_)

Beverly Rosenberg could easily have given Queen Eleanor a run for her money in polite yet ruthless manipulation. She wasted no time in latching onto the surplus of free time this ‘retirement’ implied. Which was why, a little more than sixty minutes later when Aziraphale and Crowley finally managed to excuse themselves, they had both volunteered to manage one of Beverly’s (“Please, just Bev”) pet projects. Not been asked to help—volunteered. Aziraphale was rather impressed, honestly.

“A bake sale,” Crowley said, as they headed down the block. “I’ve done a lot of ridiculous things over the years, angel, but managing a sodding _bake sale_ is really pushing it.”

“For a women’s shelter,” Aziraphale pointed out. Crowley made a face at him but did not protest. “Really, dear, you should have no trouble with it. You’re quite the expert at tempting people into things, after all.”

“Nghk,” Crowley said succinctly. He rolled his eyes, a gesture which somehow managed to involve both neck and shoulders, and then pinned Aziraphale with a meaningful look of his own. “At least I didn’t sign up to wrangle a whole mess of children for an activity and field day. What were you thinking?”

Aziraphale felt himself color slightly. _I thought it would be something you’d appreciate,_ he thought, and then said aloud, “Well, you had already volunteered to run the bake sale, and who knows what she would have suggested next? Besides, it’s for a good cause. And it can’t be that bad, can it?”

* * * * *

Famous last words.

The London chapter of the Boys & Girls Club was a fine, upstanding group meant to provide support, community, and activities for vulnerable children and teenagers. Aziraphale could not have approved of their mission more. But by the time the field day was over, Aziraphale had upped his estimation of people who supervised unruly children from ‘superheroes’ to ‘eligible for sainthood.’

“Well, you weren’t kidding about running late,” said Crowley as Aziraphale trudged through the door of Crowley’s flat some three hours after he said he’d be home for dinner. “Your curry’s in the microwave, s’almost done.”

“Ugh,” said Aziraphale. He collapsed into one of the chairs and found he had to make an effort not to simply keep slumping right off the chair and onto the floor. “I have no idea how anyone does that on a regular basis.” 

Crowley looked at him sympathetically. Once, Aziraphale would have chided him for pretending to an emotion demons weren’t supposed to feel. Then again, once Crowley would have viciously shut him down if Aziraphale had accused him of it. Now such concerns seemed trivial. 

As if on cue, the electric kettle clicked off. Crowley went about fixing Aziraphale a steaming mug of tea, one he poured a liberal helping of brandy into. Aziraphale peered at the mug as it was set in front of him, then up at Crowley. “You just had this waiting?”

Crowley shrugged. “I was tracking your location on your phone.” 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale faintly. His chest warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the brandy and hot tea in the mug before him. “That is—thank you.”

Crowley waved a hand. “Judging by that stain on the back of your jacket, you could use it.” Aziraphale groaned.

Over some excellent tikka masala and two mugs of generously-spiked tea, Aziraphale told Crowley how the day went: overall very well, but with a number of small-to-moderate catastrophes en route. The activities had ranged from volleyball and tug-of-war to five-a-side football, three-legged race, and the egg-and-spoon race, with some old-fashioned tag thrown in for spice. There had been food, and a rest area, and some quieter activities for the children who had become over-stimulated. (Aziraphale had very much wanted to stay in the rest area after a point—the children were not the only ones being over-stimulated, particularly after the boy who got sick all over his coat—but he had valiantly stayed his post.)

“You got hit in the head with a volleyball,” Crowley said. It was not a question.

“Of course I did, but it wasn’t very hard, and Simone didn’t _mean_ to,” Aziraphale said wearily. “Anyway, she was trying her best, but she was really too young to be there, her parents just dropped her and her sisters off with their brother Alex, and the reason I was so late was because their parents were the last to come pick them up.”

Crowley made a rude noise. “I knew it,” he said. “They just dropped the kids off and left, didn’t they? Treated it like free babysitting.”

“I—” Aziraphale sighed. “Yes.”

“Typical,” Crowley growled. 

“It wasn’t all bad,” Aziraphale said, somehow defensive. “Alex was a lovely child, you would have liked him.” He went on to tell Crowley about how the boy had decided that Aziraphale needed some assistance managing the events, and how against all expectations he’d actually been terribly helpful. 

“He knew just what to say to get everyone to listen and behave,” Aziraphale said, almost fond. The curry and brandy had done a great deal to improve his mood. 

“Probably because he spends all his time at home wrangling his sisters while his parents ignore them,” Crowley said. The words were cynical, but the expression on his face wasn’t, quite. He looked—tired, and rather sad.

The expression was far too familiar. Aziraphale’s exhausted mind slid sideways, remembering a similar shadow of weariness and grief on Crowley in a very different time and place. In his mind’s eye he saw Crowley slumped against the side of a sturdy wooden wall, a gaggle of sleeping children curled against him, pudgy fingers clutching still-wet robes. Neither Crowley nor his charges had stirred at Aziraphale’s entrance. The demon’s face was gaunt with exhaustion; sustaining the miracle of keeping six children hidden and quiet long enough to save them from being found by Noah meant the air was thick with enough magic to choke on.

Aziraphale had simply miracled them more food and water, then shut the door behind himself. He’d been similarly humbled the other day after discovering Crowley’s laptop open on his desk. A tab on screen showed an article about American diplomat Thaddeus Dowling’s unceremonious return to the US after an ‘incident’ in Israel. _Missing diplomat and family return home unharmed,_ read the headline. Aziraphale had stared for a long time at the photo of a very-much-alive Warlock next to his parents, stomach twisted in affection and remorse. Then he’d thrown a blanket over the sleeping demon and quietly left the flat. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, wrenching himself back to the present, “Bev will be satisfied, I think. She’s coming to your bake sale tomorrow, isn’t she? I’ll just tell her how it went when we see her then.”

At the mention of the bake sale, Crowley’s lip curled. “It’s not _my_ bake sale, I’m just making sure nothing gets set on fire,” he said darkly. “And anyway, you’d better watch out, or else she’s going to rope you into running something else.”

“Oh, probably,” Aziraphale said, but he found himself smiling anyway. It had been… sort of nice, actually, to have something to focus on that wasn’t the frustration of their current predicament. 

The proceeds from the bake sale were all going entirely to benefit the New Horizons Women’s Shelter. There was also a silent auction with the same goal going on in the back hall of the community centre in which the bake sale was taking place; Aziraphale put a bid on two separate antique pieces, one of which he was quite certain had been stolen from the Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna in Rome. If he got the piece in question, he would donate it back anonymously. The other piece was a painting being sold as a Monet knock-off that Aziraphale knew for a fact was just one of his lesser-known works. He thought Crowley might fancy it, and intended to surprise him with it if he was successful. 

But Aziraphale couldn’t spend _too_ much time in the auction hall. The men and women who’d signed up to contribute their talents to the bake sale ranged in talent from ‘extreme amateur’ to ‘could rival Lionel Poilâne for skill at bread-making.’ Aziraphale did not actually think he could sample them all—not without setting himself up to be miserable for a solid twenty-four hours—but he was going to do his very best to hit the highlights. Crowley had made sure there was a tea station set up and well-supplied (“Just so I don’t have to listen to you complain, angel”), so there was plenty of time to pause and reflect between samplings. 

There was a Victoria sponge cake that was so perfect that Aziraphale briefly thought he’d ascended back to his angelic state again from the taste of the cream and strawberries melting on his tongue. Another gentleman’s rosemary-parmesan scones were just this side of sinful. By the time he got to the plump woman selling slices of perfect tiramisu, Aziraphale was floating on air. 

To give himself time to adequately enjoy dessert, he looked around the room. He caught sight of Crowley snaking through the crowd, hips swaying, human bones doing their damnedest to live up to their demonic heritage. He leaned over a shoulder here, flashed a winning smile there—was in fact the very picture of charm and favour. Perhaps he wasn’t technically fully demon at the moment, but it didn’t appear to stop him tempting everyone in the room to eat ridiculous amounts of pastries. 

Crowley was wearing his usual black on black, complete with yet another pair of sunglasses. Aziraphale took a moment to appreciate the slick pouf Crowley had perfected despite the lack of demonic miracles to smooth the way. He might love the longer styles Crowley wore sometimes more, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the shorter ones too. And while there was a great deal about modern fashion Aziraphale didn’t care for, those tight jeans really did compliment Crowley’s legs and slender figure. 

After a moment, Aziraphale realized he was staring, tiramisu forgotten on his plate. He turned quickly back to his survey of the room, hoping no one had noticed. But now that he’d spotted Crowley, his awareness of the demon’s location burned like a lantern in his mind. Aziraphale kept glancing back to check on Crowley’s progress, doing his best to be surreptitious. 

He’d done this so many times: stared at Crowley across a crowded room, feasting his eyes on his dearest companion in a way he never permitted himself when they were side by side. The scene and outfit changed, but the brightly-burning demon was never any less magnetic no matter what shape he chose to wear. Crowley laughing with a group of huntsmen by a fire in the woods; Crowley drawing every eye in the room in his glittering cocktail gown and kohl-lined eyes; Crowley leaning over a bar to order them more drinks, unselfconscious in a way that Aziraphale craved and was intensely jealous of. 

Heavens, Aziraphale wanted him so badly. 

The only thing that hurt worse than his longing for Crowley was his terrible fear that he’d missed his chance. That it had taken the world nearly ending for Aziraphale to see what Crowley had been telling him for centuries made him turn his face away, attention on Chelsea buns instead of what he really wanted. 

When he finally dared another glance, he saw that someone else had taken Crowley’s attention. The woman he was talking to was one of the shelter owners; Crowley had pointed her out to Aziraphale before the bake sale had started. Aziraphale had wanted to see the person who was responsible for the loathsome little caveat on the shelter’s admission policy—as well as the person Crowley had spent so much time digging up blackmail on.

Crowley now had a particular look on his face that Aziraphale recognized immediately: that of a demon about to manage a particularly fiendish curse.

“Enjoying yourself?” said a voice behind him. Aziraphale turned around to see Pepper’s great-aunt with a small plate of pastries and an amused smile on her face. 

“Oh, it’s just lovely,” said Aziraphale, and managed to mostly mean it. Beverly—Bev, he corrected himself—fell into step beside him, and they made a slow rotation around the bake sale hall in the opposite direction he’d come. Bev directed him to two separate stations he’d somehow missed his first time around, a man selling cherry tarts and a young lady selling absolutely _exquisite_ petits fours, before she got round to asking about the field day.

Aziraphale had intended to give her a polite version of events, but something about her faint smile and sly questions got to him. He found himself regaling her with all the sordid details, including the candy disaster and the child who sicked up all over him. Bev threw back her head and laughed when she heard about how Aziraphale had taken a volleyball to the head and wound up knocking over a table full of juice and water. He felt himself flush, even as a pleasant sense of well-being came over him. 

“Where’s your other half?” Bev asked, when she’d recovered from Aziraphale’s tale of woe. Aziraphale thought about correcting her, then decided against it. 

“I saw him a little while ago,” Azirphale said instead. “He was, ah…”

“Arguing with Susan Bishop about the admission policy of the shelter?”

Aziraphale glanced sharply at Bev. She was still smiling, but there was an edge to her posh veneer now. “That’s correct,” Aziraphale said slowly. “…You knew?”

“They don’t advertise the policy, but when they approached me asking for help organizing and promoting the sale, I looked into it,” said Bev. The shelter’s official policy was that only ‘biological women’ were permitted to stay in its walls, an obtuseness and perversity of language that Aziraphale found almost as detestable as its implications. “I almost turned them down, but I thought perhaps that if I found someone to run things who would take the bull by the horns, it would be worth it.”

Aziraphale said nothing for several seconds. He was mentally revising his estimation of Beverly Rosenberg’s character, as well as her ability to judge the character of others. “How on earth did you know Crowley would do that?” he asked finally, too curious not to inquire. “You hardly even know us.”

“Pepper approves of you,” Bev said. “She has very strong feelings on the matter. She wouldn’t have suggested I ask either of you for help if she didn’t think you had your heads on straight.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. He hesitated. There was honestly no good reason for Bev to have trusted him or Crowley on this, no matter what Pepper might have said. But he couldn’t press the topic without insulting her somehow, and it wasn’t as if she was wrong about Crowley. 

So he let it go. At the time, he chalked it up to human eccentricity. Later, though, he would see that conversation for what it was: his first sign that Beverly Rosenberg was more than she appeared to be. 

“Well, he’s right over there, if you want to ask him how things have gone.” Aziraphale nodded in the direction of the large double doors at the end of the room, where Crowley was slouching in a fashion both passive-aggressive and nonchalant at Susan Bishop. She was now quite red in the face, her well-cut business clothes doing nothing to hide the impoliteness of her fury. As they approached, Mrs. Bishop threw up her hands and stormed off, leaving Crowley standing there smirking at her back. 

“How goes the bake sale, Mr. Crowley?” Bev asked, expression innocent. “Mrs. Bishop seems a bit unhappy, doesn’t she?”

“Oh hello, Bev, angel,” said Crowley. There was no mistaking the glee in his voice. “Mrs. Bishop and I have come to an understanding, one I’m afraid she’s none too pleased about. But the bake sale is going swimmingly! Nearly double the funding goal we set.”

“That’s magnificent,” said Aziraphale, as Bev made pleased noises. “Mrs. Bishop didn’t seem to love the news, somehow.”

“Well, you see, I informed her that due to a _very_ obscure set of financial laws on the books about charitable organizations, the bake sale funds actually all belong to the organizer of the proceedings—namely, me. I have to fill out paperwork and do an actual contract to donate all the money to the shelter. And I told her that I just simply wouldn’t be able to do that until she and her board made a few tiny changes to their policies. Can’t work with transphobes, you see.” 

“Are you sure she won’t just close the shelter to spite you?” Bev raised an eyebrow at Crowley.

“She would, if I didn’t have such excellent blackmail on her,” Crowley said. He smiled so wickedly that Aziraphale could almost see his infernal halo. “Humans who want to do nasty things should really be more careful about covering their tracks.”

“Oh, _darling,_” Aziraphale said, and he beamed. Bev coughed into her napkin, a noise that sounded curiously like a cackle, though Beverly Rosenberg was of course much too polite to ever make such a sound in mixed company. 

They made conversation with Bev for a few more minutes before she excused herself and wandered off, presumably to find Mrs. Bishop. Aziraphale watched her go. “Well,” he said. “That’s that, I suppose.”

“Until she cons us into volunteering for something else,” Crowley said, but he didn’t sound half as put out about it as he could have.

Aziraphale smiled. “Probably,” he said agreeably. “But there are worse things. Can’t be worse than our last bosses.”

“Hmm,” said Crowley. His gaze shifted to Aziraphale. “What about you? Enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale. “The food has all been utterly delightful. Well done, you.” 

“Well I couldn’t very well muck it up, could I,” said Crowley. “I’d’ve never heard the end of it from you. You make that sad puppy face when you’re disappointed, like it isn’t some kind of emotional napalm. S’not fair.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. He found it suddenly hard to think, or speak, or do anything except be painfully and deeply aware of the smell of Crowley’s hair just a foot or so away. “Well.” 

“Right,” said Crowley abruptly. “Let’s go before Mrs. Bishop decides to come back and make a scene.” He turned and started walking towards the front of the hall, Aziraphale falling into step beside him. And if it took Aziraphale the entire trip home to stop thinking about the implications of that particular comment, well, he kept it to himself.

* * * * *

Crowley’s prediction about Beverly Rosenberg commandeering their free time was soon proven correct. They got exactly three days of being left alone before Bev left a voicemail on Crowley’s mobile, asking if he and Aziraphale might swing by her flat for dinner later that week. Crowley put the matter in Aziraphale’s hands, and Aziraphale of course accepted. He was afraid Crowley might be against going, but when he asked him about it, Crowley only shrugged.

“S’not like we’re doing anything else, are we,” he said. They were strolling down the sidewalk to a nearby Ethiopian restaurant, enjoying the late afternoon sun. “Unless you’ve turned up something in your research and haven’t told me about it?”

“I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale said. He’d finally reopened the bookshop—well, for a value of “open” that still meant “incredibly hostile to actual purchases and closed half the days of the week”—but most of his time at the shop was still spent researching. So far he’d found very little that was remotely helpful to their current circumstances. 

“Me either,” said Crowley. He made a face. They wove past a cluster of tourists all peering at a map together, chattering over where to go next. “I’ve been talking to that—witch, Anathema, trying to see if she’s got any brilliant ideas, but so far it’s all turned up dry.”

“I didn’t think you cared for her,” Aziraphale said, unable to hide his surprise. 

“What—listen, we have a situation here, I’m just trying to be practical. Anyway, if we’re Adam’s ‘godparents’ now, we’re going to have to be in Tadfield a fair bit anyway, right? S’as good a reason as any.” 

“That’s true,” Aziraphale said. “We do have to be keeping up appearances.” 

He was just about to ask when Crowley meant to go to Tadfield next, so he could plan to come, when they turned a corner and ran smack into an angel.

“Aziraphale,” said Uriel. Their face burned with holy light. “I have come to—_hey!_”

Crowley had just bashed Uriel in the face, shoving them into the wall in the process. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and bolted down the street, dragging Aziraphale with him. “Stop!” Uriel cried behind them. “Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped. He stumbled as they rounded the corner too fast, nearly colliding with a young family. They’d only been running for a moment, but his heart felt like it would beat out of his chest, his pulse racing in his ears. “Crowley, wait!”

“Bugger this, they’re not going to try to hurt you again!” 

The air burned, and suddenly Uriel was in front of them again. “Stop this at once,” they snapped. 

Crowley planted himself between Aziraphale and Uriel with a snarl. “You fuck _right_ off!” 

Uriel rolled their eyes. With a snap of their fingers, all the startled humans around them abruptly went back to whatever they’d been doing before bearing witness to a brief, pointless chase. “Still messing about with demons, I see,” they said. Their lips were thin with disapproval. 

“Just the one,” said Aziraphale. He grabbed for Crowley’s hand again, tugging the demon backwards so they were standing next to each other. “Have you finally come to make your demands, then?”

He’d wondered, deep down, when the other shoe was going to drop. Just because Adam said the enchantment of mortality on them contained wards to keep them unmolested didn’t mean it was absolute. The boy was mostly human now, after all. And here was Heaven’s emissary, clearly ready to make their demands now that they had Aziraphale hostage in his current form.

Uriel’s frown intensified. “We are aware of the terms you left on,” they said carefully. Their gaze kept slipping to Crowley, who was barely restraining himself at Aziraphale’s side. “Aziraphale, if we could just step aside for a moment—”

“Just spit it out,” said Aziraphale. All his fear seemed to vanish. In its place was an icy fury like he’d known only a handful of times. After everything they’d done, everything they’d wanted to do, the actual _nerve_ of them to pretend like this!

Uriel looked very much as if they’d rather be literally anywhere else. They took a deep breath. “Very well,” they said. “After your… display, we were for a time concerned you had—gone native. But after much discussion, Head Office has come round to the position that having an officer on Earth so immune to the wiles of the Other Side would be very useful.”

Aziraphale stared. “You what,” he said.

“It’s a trick, angel,” hissed Crowley. “Don’t listen to them!”

“Heaven does not resort to _trickery,_ Hellspawn,” Uriel said. Crowley made a rude noise and watched with satisfaction as Uriel colored under their golden shine. They cleared their throat, turning their attention back to Aziraphale. “I have come to formally offer to reinstate you to your old position.”

Beside him, Crowley went very still. Aziraphale stared at Uriel. So this was how they were going to play it. His heart sank as he saw what he’d have to do. The warmth of Crowley’s hand in his was a sudden counterpoint to the cold seeping into his skin.

“If I agree to come back, will you lift the binding?” he said. “You have to lift it from both of us, I won’t even consider it otherwise.”

Crowley made a tight, pained noise. “Aziraphale, don’t,” he said, turning towards him with a desperate look on his face. He still hadn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand, and he squeezed it tighter now than before. “This is just another trick, don’t—don’t let them _control_ you again—”

“Beg pardon,” said Uriel. “What ‘binding’ are you speaking of?”

Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley said anything for a moment. “You didn’t arrange for it,” Aziraphale said, realization dawning like the first sunrise over Eden. “You don’t even know about it.”

“What are you _talking_ about,” Uriel demanded. 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who looked as startled as Aziraphale felt and yet also still fearful. His heart hurt at having caused that expression to appear on Crowley’s face—again—but he couldn’t think about it now. “Uriel, do use your Sight on me, and tell me what you see,” he said. He was proud of how even his voice came out.

Uriel stared. They narrowed their eyes, their aura flaring suddenly around them brightly enough that both Aziraphale and Crowley had to shield their gazes. Moments later, they were human-shaped again, but now staring at Aziraphale with a new expression. It was a look Aziraphale had personally never seen on their face, although Crowley had, when he was pretending to be Aziraphale:

Fear.

“You’re mortal,” they said blankly. “You—how did this happen? You haven’t Fallen, your wings, they’re—”

“Just so,” said Aziraphale. He found that he was smiling. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to take you up on your very generous offer. As you can see, I have a prior engagement.”

“Who did this? To both of you, no less.” Uriel looked accusingly at Crowley. “This was your side’s doing, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, fuck off,” snapped Crowley. Aziraphale squeezed his hand tightly, and was gratified when Crowley squeezed back. 

Uriel looked once more from Aziraphale to Crowley, then at their joined hands. They drew themselves up, their jaw tightening. 

“It doesn’t matter,” they said. “It just makes it easier. We know what to do with traitors.”

Aziraphale’s pulse sped up as he saw holy fire gathering itself around Uriel’s corporation. He found himself rooted to the spot. This was it. Death had made them mortal, and now Heaven’s wrath had finally caught up. 

“Angel,” said Crowley from beside him. The hand in Aziraphale’s squeezed tight. 

White fire struck them from above—and rebounded. 

There was a flash of blinding light, so bright Aziraphale clamped his eyes shut despite himself. He heard Uriel shout, felt the rattle of force somehow bounce off him. He opened his eyes in time to see Uriel land hard on the pavement a good thirty feet away. The side of the building along the sidewalk between them and Uriel had been sheared away, as if by a giant hand. 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley and saw the demon looking back at him, face white with shock. His glasses had been knocked off, broken to bits on the sidewalk next to them. 

Uriel picked themselves shakily off the ground. Blood trickled down their face; their eyes burned gold, leaking shining tears down their cheeks as their corporation strained to cope with the damage. Aziraphale saw them swallow hard. Then they vanished. 

All around them, humans kept going about their way, despite the destruction that had just been wreaked on this London street. Aziraphale wondered vaguely how long Uriel’s miracle would hold for.

Crowley took a shaky breath. “What,” he said, “the _fuck._ Just happened.”

“What was it Adam said, about the energy binding us,” Aziraphale said faintly. “‘Just screaming not to be messed with.’”

“I don’t fucking get it,” Crowley said. He glanced at the humans still cheerfully walking by them, then tugged at Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale let the demon lead him down the street, away from the worst of the damage, trying to sort out what had happened and how he was meant to feel. His brain kept returning to the warm hand that was still holding his so tightly, and how much he did not want to let go of it. 

But eventually the reality of Uriel’s failed attack broke through. “I guess we know who’s responsible for setting the Horsepeople on us, now,” Aziraphale said after a moment.

Crowley glanced at him sharply. “Like Hell we do,” he said. “We only know it wasn’t Heaven’s doing.”

“You were the one who said it wasn’t Hell’s, either,” said Aziraphale. He turned, taking Crowley’s hand in both of his, emboldened by the new knowledge that this wasn’t Heaven’s doing. “Our Upper Management will compare notes, and when everyone realizes none of them had anything to do with it, there will only be one conclusion left.”

Crowley stared at him. “You really think it was Her,” he said. His voice shook. 

“I honestly don’t know,” said Aziraphale. “But I’m not sure who else it could be, at this point, if it isn’t coming from either of our Head Offices and Adam didn’t do it.”

“We don’t know it isn’t my side,” Crowley said. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully. “They could be saving something really wretched for us, some misery that only works on humans. Beelzebub would like that.” 

“I think you know that isn’t true,” said Aziraphale. 

It was the wrong thing to say. Crowley glared at him, yanking his hand out of Aziraphale’s and stalking a little way down the sidewalk. “Crowley, please—”

“We don’t know _anything,_ Aziraphale,” Crowley snapped. “I don’t do blind faith. In case you’ve forgotten, doubting is sort of my whole thing.”

“Why is it so hard to believe that we’re part of the Plan?” Aziraphale asked, torn between hurt and indignation. “We were in the right place at the right time! We made it through against all odds! After everything that happened—the prophecies, and, and Adam, and—”

“Don’t you tell me that! Don’t you dare say any of this was meant to be, Aziraphale!” People were turning to stare at them now, Uriel’s minor miracle to make attention slide off them having expired. Crowley was pacing back and forth, too agitated to make even an attempt at his usual veneer of calm. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale took a step towards him, reaching out. Crowley whirled on him, and Aziraphale winced at the anguish he glimpsed in those amber eyes he loved so well.

“Don’t,” Crowley hissed. “Just. Don’t.” Aziraphale swallowed, dropping his hands. 

Crowley took a deep breath, visibly calming himself. He dug in his jacket pocket, coming up with the second pair of sunglasses he still carried around out of habit. “I can’t believe you, of all people, would ask me to _have faith_,” he said, slipping the sunglasses onto his face. “After everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve seen done in Her name.”

Aziraphale bit his own lip savagely. “I’m sorry,” he said unhappily. “I don’t know what else to say.”

At that, a crooked smile appeared on Crowley’s face. “I know, angel,” he said. “That’s the problem.” He shook his head. Suddenly he looked very tired, as if the weight of their six thousand years had dropped on him all at once. “I think I’m gonna have to skip dinner tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Aziraphale stared at him, feeling his heart sinking down, down. “Yes,” he said faintly. “Tomorrow.”

“G’night, angel.” Crowley hesitated, staring at him for a moment as if on the verge of doing something. Then he gave a jerky nod, turned on his heel, and headed down the street, hands in his pockets.

Aziraphale watched him go. He watched the long line of Crowley disappear around a corner and wondered helplessly if there would ever be a way to bridge the long Fall between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Lionel Poilâne](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lionel_Poil%C3%A2ne) was a real French baker famous for his excellent bread. 
> 
> The shelter I mention in this chapter is not a real place, at least not to my knowledge; apologies if I've impugned anyone's honor.


	6. letting the water fall: 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After they fight, Aziraphale tries to give Crowley the space the demon asked for. But everything Aziraphale does to distract himself makes things hurt worse, until he doesn't know which end is up. 
> 
> Or: The problem with asking for what you want is that sometimes you get it. (Aziraphale pines, remembers, and then has lots of cause to worry about Crowley.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for those of you who have been sticking around! We get a little deeper into some backstory here as the feelings Aziraphale and Crowley have been avoiding dealing with blow up in their faces. Kudos to my betas for helping me revise this chapter and beta-ing it for me twice over. ♥

_”Crowley, please—_”

_“We can’t do this, angel,” Crowley says. His hair has grown long during their years together in Rome, almost as long as that awful morning in Golgotha. Now he pushes it out of his face, expression searing in its determination. “I can’t let you end up like me.”_

_“I’m not afraid,” Aziraphale says, wild. His whole body burns. The other patrons in the inn are starting to stare as Aziraphale’s spirit emanates more visibly on this plane, but in this moment the angel does not care. “There’s no sin in this, Crowley. I know it.”_

_They’ve been arguing for an hour now. Aziraphale is drunk on both wine and the past few weeks he’s spent with Crowley. After over a century of regularly running into each other, this time was somehow different. Both of them have been coming up with excuse after excuse to not leave the city, ignoring their respective instructions in favor of a play, or a stroll in Trajan’s market, or wandering along the banks of the Tiber. Tonight Aziraphale stopped pretending._

_“You **don’t** know that!” Crowley stands, his chair clattering to the ground. “I’m not going to be the reason you Fall. You need to sort yourself out, Aziraphale.” And before Aziraphale can stop him, Crowley is walking away. _

_“Crowley!” Aziraphale stands too. He reaches for the demon’s retreating back—_

Aziraphale sat up. 

His head spun. For a moment, he didn’t know where or when he was, or why he was struggling from unconsciousness. Then the noise that woke him came again: his mobile chirping at him from the bedside table. 

Aziraphale grabbed the mobile, scanning the messages on screen. They were from Crowley. _not feeling well, going to stay in today,_ it said. _tell Bev I said hullo, if she asks about signing us up for something, you can pick for me._

He reread the message several times as he tried to decide how to feel, all the events of yesterday jogging into his mind one by one. That… wasn’t completely terrible, he supposed. He doubted Crowley was planning to disappear completely if he was willing to let Aziraphale sign him up for another project with Bev. 

But his heart sank at the idea of Crowley being unable to face him. The thought that perhaps the demon was genuinely ill occurred to him and was summarily discarded as highly unlikely. He could read between the lines: Crowley needed space. Aziraphale owed him that much. He sighed and set about writing out a response. 

(It took him a moment, as Aziraphale was of the school of thought that if one was writing a correspondence, certain niceties had to be observed, regardless of the lack of concrete letterhead and quill pen. Crowley had protested that he texted like an escapee from a period play, but Aziraphale ignored him. The demon could be as trendy as he wanted; Aziraphale would stick to the dignity of proper manners.)

_Dearest Crowley,_ he typed, _I am sorry to hear you’re unwell, and I hope you find yourself in good spirits again soon. You will be sorely missed at dinner tonight. I will tell Beverly—_

Here he paused, as another message from Crowley popped up before he could finish typing and send his own response. _angel you don’t have to type a bloody report it’s just a text message_

Aziraphale pressed his lips together harder, trying to suppress a smile. _I will tell Beverly you are under the weather and do my best to select a project you will find agreeable. Please let me know if you would like to keep our plans for tomorrow._ They were supposed to get lunch and then attend a rare book auction Aziraphale had been looking forward to for weeks. He saw the little dots floating on the screen that said another text from Crowley was incoming, and he hastened to finish his own missive before it could arrive.

Too late. _im going back to sleep, I’ll read ur ESSAY when I wake up_

Aziraphale huffed. Really, this was so uncalled for. He signed the text (_Sincerely, Aziraphale_) sent it, and set the phone down, but glanced at it again a moment later when Crowley’s response came through. (He really did type devilishly fast.) 

_yes we’re on for lunch, my treat since im abandoning u tonight. Have a good day angel_

Aziraphale softened. He hesitated a moment, then sent another (much shorter) message back: _Sleep well, my dear._

(He lasted all of five seconds before he grabbed the phone and sent a follow up. _Sincerely, Aziraphale_. Then he fled for the safety of the bathroom.)

The rest of the morning went poorly. Aziraphale’s little flat above the bookshop felt cold and empty without the warmth of Crowley’s presence. It was stupid to feel so awful about it, but right now Crowley’s absence felt enormous, like the site of a blasted building on a crowded city block. 

It’d be different if they weren’t—fighting. There, he said it. Crowley was mad at him, hurt by what he’d done, and Aziraphale didn’t know how to fix it. He puttered around the bookshop, hardly seeing what was in front of him or what he puts his hands on. Images from his interrupted dream kept appearing in his mind—things that Aziraphale was able to picture all too well, despite how he’d tried to put that particular memory out of his mind. 

The picture of Crowley’s slim back disappearing through the door frame of the Roman inn throbbed like an open wound. Aziraphale’s heart had blazed bright that night till he was ready to hurl himself singing from the Heavens. He would be not a star but a meteor, becoming a fiery conflagration as he hurtled into a gravity well that would tear him apart—but oh, how worth it to die in those arms he so longed for!

But Crowley had pushed him away. It was neither the first nor the last time Crowley had been undemonic for Aziraphale, but that one hurt particularly badly. Later—the next time they saw each other—Aziraphale had worked up the courage to finally ask what was like to Fall. He’d wanted to know what Crowley was protecting him from, but Crowley had refused to answer. He’d almost walked on Aziraphale again, actually, staying only when the angel outright begged him not to go.

Much had changed since then. Crowley had grown more sure of himself, while Aziraphale grew much less so. That insecurity had made him cling harder to Heaven, though he would have denied anything of the sort. He’d been so blind: blind to what Heaven was really like, blind to what Crowley must have gone through for daring to question. And now, when they might finally safely be together, Aziraphale was left wondering if too much damage had been done to bridge the gap. 

The text messages were enough to let him get through the day. But so used to the demon’s constant presence had Aziraphale grown that by midday he was quite out of sorts. He enjoyed neither breakfast nor lunch, and he sold four entire books before turning the sign to “closed” and heading out to wander the streets in search of distraction.

(The last customer scuttled out of the shop with an astonished look on her face. As well she might—this was the fifth time in two months she’d visited Aziraphale’s shop, and today was the first and only time she’d successfully left with a purchase.)

A short taxi ride later brought Aziraphale to his destination. It was a beautiful autumn day, and the Royal Botanical Gardens were full of visitors there to appreciate its many wonders despite not being prime flower-viewing season. Crowley had opinions on the Gardens and the choices some of the botanists had made, of course—most of them critical—but Aziraphale knew for a fact the demon was fond of the place. He’d always loved flowers, and he had a special knack for green growing things, no matter how much he complained about his own plants. 

Aziraphale went first to the conservatory, admiring the tropical plants even as he started to sweat under his coat. The Bird of Paradise plant caught his eye, its joyful yellow spikes reaching skyward. Aziraphale stared at its stalks swaying in the autumn breeze and found his mind in Eden, with its everlasting blooms and lush greenery. He saw Crowley curled up as a big black snake next to him on the wall as he spent so many days before it ended, basking in the sun and listening to Aziraphale ramble. Aziraphale had been curious about the enormous snake, but was happy for a companion, even one whose name he didn’t (yet) know. Watch duty was boring.

Aziraphale shook his head and walked on. He hadn’t come here to ruminate. But their history found him again, and again, and again, and through all of it walked Crowley, ever at his side.

Waterlilies floating serenely in their man-made lake: Crowley arguing with him about Impressionism, rolling his eyes at the pretentiousness of the Parisian art scene even as he bought a Degas for Aziraphale at an auction. A rose bush still in bloom despite the lateness of the season brought the scent of ancient Damascus to him, its streets bustling with trade and life under Hadrian. Here was Crowley wrapped in silk and smelling of wine and roses, lips dark with fig juice as he smirked at Aziraphale across a table. 

But not all of the memories were sweet. Aziraphale found himself in the Mediterranean Garden, wandering through groves of stone pines and Italian cypress, lavender scenting the afternoon breeze. He faltered in front of a gorgeous Tuscan olive tree, staring up at its elegant branches and seeing a very different place long since lost. 

Olive trees loved to grow along the banks of the Jordan, great groves of them on the outskirts of Sodom. They burned like everything else in the city, branches glowing like torches in the terrible breeze. Aziraphale had been ragged with exhaustion by that point—he and Crowley had spent that whole last night desperately persuading as many good men and women who would listen that they had business in Zoar that could not wait till morning. 

Crowley staggered out of the doomed city with him, both of them taking shelter by the banks of the river. _We have to leave, angel,_ Crowley had said in his ear. His throat was raw with emotion and smoke. _Don’t stay here. Don’t watch._

Aziraphale shuddered. The memory blew away, leaving him cold. He shivered and folded his arms across his chest, his stomach turning over. How many times had Crowley been there with him, witnessing some atrocity committed in Her name? How many times had Aziraphale made excuses, hewn to his stubborn belief in Heaven’s righteousness? 

He’d been so stupid. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen the same things Crowley had seen. Crowley was not the only one daubing lamb’s blood over the doorways of innocent Egyptian families to fool Azrael. Aziraphale had been the one to come up with the idea of leading the Crusaders so badly astray they gave up and turned around to head home instead of continuing on their bloody mission; Crowley was just better at it than he was. And both of them ran themselves ragged in the streets of Paris during the Plague years, trying to stanch a never-ending flow of death and misery. 

Always Heaven hung back, happy to let their holy missions run their course or to reap victory from human tragedy, to sit back and tally up the souls. Aziraphale was the one who was actually on Earth, seeing what righteousness looked like up close and personal. And Crowley was the one there with him: to pull him back from the brink, to share the misery and the joys of watching over humanity. 

Over and over, whenever it counted, there was Crowley. Crowley smirking at him, laughing at him, arguing with him. Crowley risking life and limb to save humans, to show them kindness their own people wouldn’t, and then snarling at Aziraphale for daring to notice. Crowley leaning against him in a tavern on the outskirts of Golgotha, both of them seeking oblivion in wine to dull the hurt of an agonizing death. Crowley hiding his rage and his heartbreak in the plague-ridden streets of Paris behind dark glasses and biting sarcasm. Crowley prancing up the aisle of a church like a drunkard, trying to play off the way the soles of his feet were peeling from holy fire inside his shoes. 

Crowley, begging him to come away with him to Alpha Centauri. Crowley swaggering out of an inferno that used to be a car like he was turning up for a regular brunch date. Crowley, overpowering Satan himself and _stopping time_ to give a scared child room to find his courage. It was always Crowley.

“Are you all right?” asked a voice from beside him. Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath and glanced over at the young woman, who was watching him with obvious consternation. Her hair was pink and her clothes were covered in a ridiculous number of safety pins, but her face was kind. 

“I’m fine,” said Aziraphale, and tried to smile. The girl looked at him doubtfully. She reached in her spiked leather bag and pulled out a little bag of tissues, offering one to him. Aziraphale sighed and accepted the tissue, dabbing at his damp cheeks. “Ah, that’s—very kind of you. Thank you.”

“Of course,” said the woman. She looked as if she was about to do something like ask what was wrong, and Aziraphale suddenly found he couldn’t possibly stand the idea of hearing the question.

“Have a lovely day,” he said and fled.

* * * * *

Aziraphale turned up on the stoop of Beverly Rosenberg’s flat at four pm. He couldn’t remember the taxi ride that brought him here, which seemed a bit off. Stupidly, he wished he had a hat to clutch in his hands to match how woebegone he felt. He rang the bell and waited.

Bev opened the door and looked at him. She raised an eyebrow. “You’re here a bit early,” she remarked.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. Oh, Saints, he was nearly two hours early. “So sorry. That is, I’m—”

“I think you’d better come in,” Bev said, opening the door further and gesturing inside. 

Aziraphale went. She sat him down on the couch in her sitting room, vanishing into the kitchen long enough to fix tea and biscuits, both of which she brought out to him. She set the tray on the table in front of him and sat down—not on the winged chair that seemed to be her usual throne, but on the loveseat right next to him.

Aziraphale’s face burned. He reached for a mug, focusing on the fragrant scent and the warmth in his hands as he tried to collect himself. It was hard. He couldn’t seem to get his thoughts together. “My apologies for dropping in this early,” he said, finally daring a glance at Beverly.

She smiled at him. There was a warmth in her face that somehow hurt Aziraphale terribly to see, as though kindness was as hard to suffer as cruelty. Mostly because he didn’t feel very deserving of kindness at the moment. “It’s all right, my dear,” she said. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Her directness took him off guard. Then the faint inflection of her vowels reminded him. Ah, Aziraphale thought faintly. That’s right. American. “I,” he said. He let out a breath. “I’ve had a bit of a—a row with Crowley.”

“Ahhh,” said Bev. “What happened?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Oh, it’s quite a lot,” he said, managing a shaky smile. “Are you sure you don’t mind…?”

“I don’t mind,” said Bev, firmly. “Go on then.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. He took a sip of his tea, swallowed, set the mug down again. Then he opened his mouth and started talking. “We’ve known each other ever so long, is the thing…”

He talked, and talked, and talked. For although Aziraphale was a celestial being—a Principality, formerly an archangel, wholly inhuman (no matter his recent adjustment)—he was also a creature of Earth, his chosen home and the place in which he’d spent the last 6,000 years. It was hard to live amongst humans and not pick up some of their ways, no matter how he tried to keep his distance. Peak amongst these was the desire—no, the _need_ for companionship. 

Normally, that companion was Crowley. But without either the demon to reach out to or Heaven to fall back on, with everything that had happened in the past few months, Aziraphale was feeling utterly overwhelmed.

Some editing was necessary. He couldn’t exactly tell Bev the unedited version of events—she would think him mad, if nothing else. But Aziraphale found it was not as difficult as he feared to tell her the general gist of things. And Bev was an excellent listener, putting him at ease for all that Aziraphale had not known her very long. There was something about her that was familiar, something that made him feel she might understand his plight.

“You know, I really did assume the two of you were married,” she said at length, once he’d gotten through the bulk of his story. “Although if you’ve known each other as long as that, it sort of explains the way you have together.”

(They’d known each other since they were children was what he’d told her: conservative background, families that loathed each other bitterly, only recently cut them off, the whole nine yards. Close enough, he supposed.)

Aziraphale sighed. “I think he got tetchy because one of my—relatives approached us yesterday essentially to offer to have me come back, have everything the way it was,” he said. “The confrontation went poorly. Crowley got terribly upset. I tried to comfort him, and then it turned into an argument about—religion, and he ended up storming off.” Aziraphale’s eyes stung. He reached for his tea, blinking rapidly and concentrating very hard on the steaming Darjeeling in his tea cup. 

Bev made a sympathetic noise. “It sounds like he’s afraid of losing you.”

“I chose him!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “‘We’re on our side,’ I said.”

“Maybe he’s hoping for more than just being on the same side,” Bev said. “Have you asked him how he feels? What he wants?” She sounded so _reasonable_, as if what they were discussing was just a simple misunderstanding and not six thousand years of miserable longing. 

“I,” said Aziraphale. “I—well, no. Not exactly.”

“Have you told him how you feel?” Bev reached over and poured him more tea, to save him from spilling it all over himself with how badly his hands were shaking. 

“I rather hoped he knew,” Aziraphale said. It sounded hollow, even to his own ears. “I don’t know, it’s just—we went so long without being able to even admit to being friends for fear of what might happen, and now we don’t… really have to be afraid of that anymore, but I’m still just…” He faltered. “What if I’m imagining it? What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if I made him wait too long? I don’t think he’s ever really gotten over how my family treated him, and—and I think he resents me for taking so long to give them up.”

“You said he ran into a burning building looking for you,” Bev said. “He asked you to run away with him. He disowned his family for you, too.” She sat back, folding her hands in her lap. 

“Well, not just for me, but.” Aziraphale smiled, lop-sided and wobbly. “That’s… true.”

“I think you just need to talk to him, dear,” said Bev. She returned the smile. When Aziraphale finally managed a nod, she reached out and patted his arm. “I know it’s hard. But I think you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

* * * * *

Eventually, the rest of Bev’s dinner guests arrived. Most of them were society friends of hers, although Pepper and Adam both came with their parents. The two children made a beeline for Aziraphale as soon as they arrived, to his equal bemusement and delight. Adam asked after Crowley and seemed disappointed to hear he wouldn’t be present for dinner; Aziraphale made a mental note to tell the demon when they talked next. (Then he made the mistake of thinking about how that meeting might go, suffering another bout of spiritual cramps in the process, and tried not to think about anything at all.)

For a few minutes, Aziraphale was quite sure that Crowley’s fib about them being Adam’s godparents was going to blow up in his face with the Youngs there at the table. He spent half of dinner bracing himself for the question of how he and Crowley knew Pepper and Adam. But no one asked. No one seemed to think it the least bit odd that Adam and Pepper knew Aziraphale. (At one point Aziraphale caught a look of sheer beatific innocence on the boy’s face and was immediately able to guess how this particular bit of luck came about. Well, that was for the best, probably.)

As expected, Bev effortlessly floated several projects in need of management or sponsorship during the mains. Aziraphale did not even bother to wait for the expert manipulation to volunteer his and Crowley’s time. Bev shot him a look that contained both approval and something else—calculation, maybe. But Aziraphale’s head was too full of anxious thoughts and the table too full of people for him to take the time to analyze what she might be thinking.

By the time Aziraphale got home, some four hours later, he was exhausted. Fatigue gnawed at him, every ounce of him yearning for sleep; even his skin hurt, somehow. He went directly to bed—only to find himself lying awake. He stared at the ceiling, empty and aching for the body that should be next to his.

There were no messages from Crowley, no matter how many times he checked his phone. 

Sleep did not find Aziraphale until the wee hours of the morning. When she finally came to him, slipping through the window on wings of night and London fog, dark rumours crept in with her. 

Aziraphale dreamed. Not the confusing, nonsensical mess of human dreams, all talking dogs and missing trousers or the occasional violent horror show, but a painful wander through the halls of true memory. But his memories were no more human than his life’s history, and revisiting them more fully in his sleeping mind put a terrible strain on his mortal corporation. He dreamed of creation before Heaven and Hell: the vast wheeling galaxies, the birth of stars, the Host singing together in celestial harmony. He dreamed of the war that shattered Heaven and the terrible grief of fighting against his brothers and sisters, how hollow and empty Elysium felt in its wake. 

He dreamed of a red-haired angel with brilliant amber eyes. For although Heaven had obliterated all memory of the Fallen from the minds of the remaining host, a soul could never truly forget its other half, no matter how much time passed or how much distance separated them. 

Aziraphale tossed and turned, his noises lost into the pillows. He tore at the sheets, his mortal vessel straining with the effort of reliving experiences too wide and deep for its frame. The memories poured through him like water, a river in spring flood, relentlessly battering at him and washing clean the millennia of denial and shame and avoidance that had buried his heart fathoms deep. If anyone had been there to witness him, they would have seen steam rising off Aziraphale as he sweated and burned at a temperature too hot for a human body to tolerate.

Finally, the dreams left him, and he sank into blessed darkness. He slept late that morning, oblivious to first his alarm, then to the text messages and ringing of a phone still on ‘silent’ from the dinner party the evening before. It was only the distant _thump!_ of a door slamming and a dear voice calling his name in a panic that finally stirred him from slumber. 

“Aziraphale!” shouted Crowley from somewhere quite close by. “AZIRAPHALE!” 

Aziraphale tried to get out of bed too fast and landed in a twisted mess of sheets on the floor, cursing in Enochian. “Crowley, I’m up here!” he yelled, scrambling to his feet.

He had just made it round the bed when Crowley appeared in the doorway. The demon’s face was wild. His glasses were gone, amber eyes wide in a too-pale face. His shirt had a large damp spot across his chest, and sweat stood out on his temples and throat. And he fairly _reeked_ of smoke, enough to make Aziraphale draw back in shock. 

“Crowley,” he began, “dear boy, what on Earth—”

“Oh,” said Crowley. He swayed in the doorway, an expression of unutterable relief passing over him. “You’re alive.” He smiled. Then he collapsed to the floor in a pile of limbs. 

“CROWLEY!” Aziraphale shouted, but the demon did not respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: I have Aziraphale as a former archangel due to a fun bit of angelology trivia I stumbled across, which says that G-d assigned archangels to each of the four directions: 'These angels are known as the "Archangels of the Four Directions" or "Four Corners" or "Four Winds". They are Uriel (north), Michael (south), Raphael (east), and Gabriel (west).' You can read a bit more about here [here](https://www.learnreligions.com/archangels-of-four-directions-124410). I really enjoyed this because thinking about what the other three were doing at the other gates of Eden really gives their relationship with Aziraphale a new dimension. Thanks for reading!


	7. the book of love: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a crisis, visits one of the other side's stomping grounds, and comes to a painful realization. 
> 
> (Or: Crowley engages in some good old-fashioned self-loathing right up until he can't not talk to Aziraphale anymore, and then a long overdue conversation is had.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my lovely betas, who took time away from Nano to help me with this today! **PLEASE NOTE** there is some discussion of Crowley's internalized self-loathing in this chapter as well as some fairly self-destructive behaviors like binge-drinking and chain-smoking, but nothing worse than that.

_THIRTY-SIX HOURS PRIOR_

Crowley coped predictably with the appearance of Uriel. That is, poorly.

After his short-lived row with the angel, he dragged himself back to his flat and got spectacularly, dangerously drunk. Only his liver’s firm conviction that it had dealt with more wine on some other occasion in the past six thousand years saved Crowley from a dire case of alcohol poisoning. It did not save him from his murderous hangover the next morning, however.

He dragged himself out of bed and went to the kitchen. A handful of painkillers, a mug of day-old coffee, some questionable leftovers dug out of the back of the fridge, and he was off to the races. Crowley made it halfway out to his living room with a second mug of shit coffee in hand before he saw something that made him pause.

In the middle of the hallway was a shattered blue-and-red planter, its broken pieces mixed in with dark soil and a ruined _Doritaenopsis_ orchid. The planter had been a gift from Aziraphale. The orchid—expensive, elegant, achingly lovely—had been intended as a gift _for_ Aziraphale, but Crowley had chickened out of his romantic overture at the last minute and kept the plant for himself. 

Crowley’s queasy stomach did an unpleasant backflip as he stared at the evidence of the previous night. Flashes of his drunken misery came floating to the surface like sour bubbles: weeping into his second bottle of red wine, ranting at no one as he paced the halls of his flat, hurling the plant at the floor in a fit of pique.

“Nghk,” Crowley said. He grimaced. After a moment he went back to the kitchen, unable to look at the mess a moment longer. The murdered orchid felt far too much like a metaphor for his own romantic aspirations. 

He retreated back to the bedroom, flinging himself at his mattress like a petulant child. But despite how wretched he felt, Crowley’s brain was too wired to allow him to get back to sleep, and so after nearly an hour of tossing and turning he gave up. He fetched his mobile and texted the angel, because there was absolutely no way he was going to be able to see Aziraphale until he’d gotten his head sorted out. 

The unnecessarily complicated text Aziraphale sent back was enough to make Crowley crack a smile despite himself. He was texting back before he’d realized it, his fingers betraying him:

_yes we’re on for lunch, my treat since im abandoning u tonight._ Crowley hesitated, then bit his lip and added _have a good day angel_ before hitting send.

Aziraphale sent a response only seconds later. _Sleep well, my dear._

“FUCK,” said Crowley and threw the mobile at the wall.

* * * * *

Some twenty minutes later, a resentfully showered and still hungover demon headed out of the flat to get a new mobile.

Acquiring the new device and getting it set up took the better part of two hours. Instead of heading home, Crowley decided to prowl. He was too jittery and wound up to stay in and sulk, despite how little he wanted to deal with other humans today. His skin was sore and aching, stretched too tightly over bones that felt wrong, static, Earth-bound.

He wanted to hurt. He wanted to pick a fight. For six thousand years he’d hated himself on a visceral level for reasons real and imagined, and consequently he’d gotten very good at the kind of self-inflicted misery humans could only dream of. 

Crowley had sulked for years on end before. He’d drunk himself into a stupor, dragged his bleeding hide across a vast desert on foot, eaten nothing but ash and his own bitterness for years. He’d fucked his miserable way through a city full of equally miserable humans. And with each broken partner, he reminded himself that he had no right to be touched kindly or with love.

Which was a bit of a fucking problem, considering that the being he’d gone and fallen for was the very epitome of loving kindness. 

Crowley walked around the block from the electronics store. He took a brief detour down an alley long enough to vomit up the contents of his stomach into someone’s bin. Then he kept going, walking until he found a pub, upon which he turned on his heel and went inside. 

The bartender’s bored glance at him turned into a longer look, complete with raised eyebrow. “What can I get you?” the man asked. The question was carefully neutral.

“Whisky,” Crowley said. He dropped a handful of coins on the counter and retreated to a grungy corner. There he jammed his bony shoulders against the worn plasticine and stared into the depths of his drink. 

Prior to now, Crowley’s stance on his situation went like this:

If he revealed his feelings to Aziraphale, one of two things would happen: One, the angel would confirm that while he might well feel companionship (or even friendship) for a demon, he could never possibly _love_ one. (A generalized love for all of Creation did not count.) 

Or—at once both better and much worse—Aziraphale might love him back. This was so painful that Crowley almost never dared to contemplate it. Sure, Aziraphale might have had a moment of dizzying weakness for Crowley back during their time together in Rome, but Crowley knew that wanting something because it was forbidden was not the same thing as love. 

(Crowley had all but thrown himself into the Mediterranean in despair after that particular debacle. He’d come far, far too close to genuinely tempting Aziraphale out of loneliness and longing. The angel had been ready to Fall for him, and it would have been Crowley’s fault. Just the thought of it was enough to make him sick to this day.) 

But what if Aziraphale did feel the same?

If Aziraphale did love him back, what would happen then? Would he act on it and Fall, plummet into the boiling pit to suffer for eternity? Would Hell destroy all the best parts of him, scald away his delicate blond hair, crown him with some foul creature to replace his golden halo? Would he remember anything of the life he’d shared on Earth with Crowley, or would it all be eaten away by pain and sulfur?

Or would he realize the folly of such a choice, and go running back into the arms of Heaven? Would he abandon Earth to become as cold and indifferent as his fellows, all his softness and compassion frozen by the hallowed halls of Elysium? 

It didn’t bear thinking about. So for six thousand years, Crowley had tried not to. He had done his very best to smother those soft feelings, unable to bear the thought of what might happen if he acted too boldly on them. 

Then the impossible happened: Armageddon came. Crowley thought he’d lost his angel, but then Aziraphale came _back_. The angel of the eastern gate stood over him with a flaming sword for the second time in their long, strange lives, and for the second time failed to use it as designed. 

Crowley had stared up at Aziraphale in shock from the airbase tarmac. Ten thousand year old echoes elongated, distant past layered over the present. _What are you waiting for?_ demanded the ghost in his mind, the archangel’s face white with fear and determination. _Get out of here before someone sees!_ “Do something, Crowley!” exclaimed the same angel here and now, “Or—Or I’ll never talk to you again!”

All of this went through Crowley’s mind like rainwater dripping through a leaky roof: obnoxious, chilling, and increasingly hard to ignore. On some level he knew he couldn’t keep putting this off, not after the row they’d just had. 

But he was so afraid.

* * * * *

Some time later, after a number of pointless and irritating errands, Crowley found himself at the only place in London that didn’t irritate him on sight: the garage that housed his Bentley.

The garage was both private and expensive, as befitted his car. Just the sight of it was a balm to his ragged soul. He slid into the driver’s seat with a soft sigh, leaning back into the familiar seat and running his hands over the expensive leather of the steering wheel. Lovely car. He knew on some level it wasn’t the same as the one that had gone up in Hellfire outside the air base, but at the same time it _was_, all the way down to the bullet holes decal on the window. 

Crowley took it out for a slow, careful drive around the city, glaring bloody murder at each and every driver who dared to get too close to his beloved Bentley. He missed his car, but London traffic was murder. 

He found himself in Blackfriars, turning down a narrow side-street and pulling into a parking spot that had miraculously opened up. Crowley put the car in park and tried to See if anyone was nearby who could’ve been responsible for such a thing, but all he could detect was humans. Bugger. There was no guarantee he could spot anyone supernatural, since he was no longer sure what the radius was on his Sight, but there was nothing for it. 

He climbed out and locked the car, staring warily up at the huge edifice that rose majestically above the nearer, more modern buildings. The current St. Paul’s had been rebuilt after the Great Fire in 1666, but Crowley remembered the many buildings that had stood on this site before it. It was nearly as ever-present in London as he and Aziraphale were, so he felt a sort of kinship with it even though it was, strictly speaking, not friendly to his lot.

At least, it hadn’t been. 

His feet led him up the walk, falling into step with the flow of traffic leading up to the front of the cathedral. St. Paul’s stood apart from the rest of the city around it. Crowley’s favorite view of it was from the expensive suite at the top of the Tate Modern, from which one could see across the Thames towards Blackfriars along the path of the Millennium Bridge. He hadn’t stood this close to the cathedral since he’d come to see the burnt-out husk of Old St. Paul’s some three hundred something years ago. 

This whole part of London had been decimated in that fire, including the Globe—Aziraphale had been absolutely gutted. Crowley had had to be very creative in his reports in order to justify dabbling in the politics of London’s reconstruction, but it had been worth it to see the angel’s face when Aziraphale heard both cathedral and theatre would be rebuilt. 

Crowley got all the way up the front steps before his courage failed him. He dithered for a moment outside the front doors, trying to quiet the part of his brain screaming that he was about to be obliterated in holy fire. He’d never looked too closely at how and why he’d been able to go into that church in 1941. Ultimately he’d decided that London loved Aziraphale too much to let him be killed by fucking Nazis and had permitted Crowley entrance on those grounds—a convenient means to an end, that was all.

Finally, he steeled himself. Crowley turned around, waited for a break in the crowd, then stepped into the inbound traffic once more. He braced himself as he went over the threshold, sucking in a sharp breath of anticipation—

Nothing happened. 

Crowley staggered as he came through the door, shock kicking him in the chest like an ornery horse. He removed his sunglasses with shaking hands, tucking them into the pocket of his jacket with exaggerated care. He glanced down at his fingers, half-expecting to see the tips turning black, but all he saw were normal human hands.

He ended up buying a ticket to do the full tour. Crowley took his time, reading every single plaque and staring at every mosaic and reliquary, every blessed tomb and ornate window. He climbed all the stairs and stood on the uppermost balcony, staring out at the spread of late afternoon summer on London’s shoulders. (He took a few photos, including a particularly unfortunate selfie, just to prove he’d been there.) He even went down to the tombs below the damn church, wondering how many gravestones he would recognize the names of. 

The demon Crowley spent two and a half hours in one of the most beloved, blessed buildings in the whole of London, and the only ill effect he suffered was a throbbing headache. And he could not be certain that was from the cathedral at all, considering he’d drank enough wine the night before to pickle every one of his internal organs.

Crowley slept very poorly that night.

* * * * *

The next morning Crowley rose in an ill humor. His hangover was somehow _worse_ today, which was particularly insulting. And his stomach was bothering him. The sting of being able to enter the church with no real ill effects still nagged at him, and perhaps for this reason Crowley spitefully chose to ignore his body’s continuing pleas for gentle treatment.

He dug yet more leftovers out of the fridge, because if he had to eat he was going to expend the least amount of energy on it possible. Demons did not need to fucking eat, and if they chose to eat then it didn’t matter what they put in their bodies, because it was all going to turn to sulfur anyway. (Or maybe brimstone. Ash? Crowley wasn’t sure. Physics hadn’t been his department for over six thousand years, and anyway, making galaxies had been more art than science.) The point was that Crowley would be perfectly fine no matter what he ate, thank you very fucking much. 

Crowley distracted himself from how revolting the leftover orange chicken tasted by texting Aziraphale. _meet in the park at the usual spot and we’ll pick lunch then,_ he wrote, and went to get himself ready.

Ninety minutes of embarrassing preening later (he needed to look good for his big apology), he was on his way to St. James’s Park, and there was still no word from Aziraphale. That was fine. Aziraphale had probably just… not seen his message yet. He was probably engrossed in research, Crowley decided. Reading some occult book and hadn’t even noticed the ping. 

All the same, Crowley stopped by a corner store and bought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He hadn’t smoked in years and years, mainly due to the fact that Aziraphale didn’t care for the smell, but his fingers were twitching and he had a desperate need for fire and ashes. 

Crowley made it to the bench in St. James’s Park and sat down. He checked his phone. No message from Aziraphale. Right. Well. 

“Fuck,” Crowley muttered, and opened the pack of cigarettes. 

An hour later, he was halfway through the pack. He’d earned a number of dirty looks from passers-by, but something about his demeanor had kept anyone from actually approaching him, and anyway, he’d found a can to stick his butts in so they could fuck off. His throat and lungs hurt like the devil, and the tremble in his fingers had gotten worse instead of better, but Crowley was da—bles—fucked if he was going to stop. 

He’d texted Aziraphale several more times, all with no response. He’d called three times and left a voicemail, still with no luck. Crowley was veering wildly between horrible visions of Aziraphale deciding to cut him off cold turkey for his unreasonable behavior the other day, and a creeping dread that maybe Uriel had turned up at the bookshop to try once more to lure Aziraphale back Heaven. Only this time, they’d been successful. Maybe Aziraphale was already gone from Earth.

(That was ridiculous, he knew. Even before Uriel attacked them, Crowley had told Aziraphale how Uriel had stood by and waited for the Hellfire to render his perfect angel to ash. He didn’t truly think Aziraphale would willingly go back with Uriel, no matter how his heart stammered against his ribs. But his stupid brain just kept going.)

Maybe someone had broken into the bookshop. No, that was stupid, it was broad daylight and the bookshop was on a well-trafficked street corner in Soho. But what if it had happened last night? What if Aziraphale was unconscious? What if he was hurt?

No, no, no. He needed to wait. It wasn’t even eleven yet. He was being ridiculous. He’d always been ridiculous where the bloody angel was concerned. Crowley exhaled shakily and reached for another cigarette.

As he sucked in another drag, his gaze wandered. An older couple was making their way down the lane, hand-in-hand, the man with a cane and both of them with a stoop in their spines. Crowley watched them go. They approached a flower seller, a young woman with blonde hair tied back in a ribbon, a basket of long-stem roses in her arms. 

“I’ll take one, please,” said the old man. He beamed at the flower-seller and dug out his wallet. His partner—his wife, Crowley presumed—gave him a fond look as he ceremoniously handed her the red rose. “It’s our sixtieth anniversary,” the old man added. He gave his wife a look of such adoration that Crowley was hit with a sudden coughing fit. 

“That’s amazing!” exclaimed the young woman, clearly delighted. “Congratulations!”

Sixty years, Crowley thought. All of a sudden he felt dizzy. Sixty years was a bloody long time, for humans. How old had they even been when they met? Teenagers at best, maybe even children. They hadn’t had any idea what the world would bring them—the wars, the changes, the trials and sorrow—but they’d decided to make a go of it together all the same.

He’d known Aziraphale a century for every year that couple had been married. 

Crowley stared at the couple, at their interlaced fingers. The love radiating out of their faces made them seem decades younger. He wondered how much longer they had together, and what the one left behind would do when they found themselves alone.

_Don’t,_ whispered a voice in the back of his mind, but it was too late.

Sixty years. Sixty years was _nothing_. What if they never got their wings back? How long would they have left? 

Did Crowley even have sixty years? Did Aziraphale? Were they both aging right now? Azrael came for every human that had ever been born. It might not be through hellfire or holy water, but Azrael would come for them all the same, if they stayed the way they were. 

Crowley stared at the couple’s retreating backs, his half-smoked cigarette falling unnoticed from numb fingers to the pavement at his feet. All of a sudden the smoke in his lungs was tinged with the tar of burning books. He felt himself break into a cold sweat, dampening his shirt, his pants, his face—

(His throat hurt from screaming, from the ash in the air. The world was ending in fire and flame, and the only soul in it that mattered had already gone. _I can’t find you!_ he screamed. _**Aziraphale!**_)

Crowley abruptly found that he was done waiting. 

“Hey!” shouted someone from behind him. “You! Listen, you can’t just leave your cigarette butts in the park!” But Crowley was already halfway down the lane, his half-smoked pack forgotten on the bench. He did not turn around. 

He ran all the way from St. James’ Park to Soho, unable to stop himself even long enough to hail a cab or call an Uber. Crowley darted across active streets, narrowly dodging past cars and cyclists and startled pedestrians. His abused lungs burned, a stitch clawed up his sides, his stomach clenched—every fiber of his body screamed at him to stop, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. His legs nearly buckled beneath him as he sprinted towards the bookshop, but he did not stop even once. 

Crowley burst through the bookshop door, already yelling. He didn’t even notice how the lock opened beneath his hand, or how it locked again behind him. “Aziraphale!” he yelled. “AZIRAPHALE!”

No answer. Crowley choked on a sob. The floor of the bookshop seemed to yaw beneath him, threatening to tip and send him falling into nothingness. Then: “Crowley, I’m here!”

Crowley’s heart leapt. He dashed through the shop and clattered up the stairs to the flat on the second floor, yanking the bedroom door open with trembling fingers. 

Aziraphale stared back at him, his hair rumpled from sleep, face anxious. “Crowley,” he began, “dear boy, what on Earth—”

“Oh,” said Crowley. All of his emotions seemed to catch up at once. The only thing he could do was stare at Aziraphale, numb with sweet relief. “You’re alive.” He smiled. 

Then he passed out.

* * * * *

Crowley woke to something cool and wet on his face and a familiar voice in his ear. “I think he’s coming round,” said Aziraphale from close by. Then someone jabbed him in the arm with a needle.

“OW!” Crowley tried to sit up but found strong hands on his chest, his arms.

“_Crowley_,” said Aziraphale. He sounded awful. Crowley opened his eyes and looked up to see Aziraphale hovering over him, his face splotchy, eyes red. “Please, hold still.”

“What the fuck,” Crowley said. He tried to say something more, but a sharp drag of air in sent him off into a wracking cough. His lungs hurried to remind him of the fact that he’d recently chain-smoked half a pack of cigarettes in short order and then sprinted a mile. Something nearby beeped; Crowley suffered the inane thought that he wasn’t close enough to the Ford Fiesta at the moment to be scolded by it. A moment later someone was fitting something hard and plastic against his nostrils, draping it over his face. 

“Just be still, my dear,” whispered Aziraphale. The angel cradled his cheek in one hand, and under his touch Crowley quieted, staring up at him in mixed confusion and vague nausea. 

After a moment he registered that there were other humans present. Two of them, actually: one fitting oxygen tubing on his face, the other still busy with a needle in his arm—ah, an IV. Paramedics. Shit. 

“I don’t need an ambulance,” Crowley said, or tried to, anyway. It came out sounding very garbled for some reason. He tried again. “Angel—”

“Crowley, please, it’s alright. I’m here. Just hold still.” A warm hand found his, laced their fingers together and squeezed. Aziraphale smiled at him; the expression was pained, and Crowley found that he would do whatever Aziraphale asked so long as he would stop making that face. 

“Alright,” he said groggily, and squeezed back. 

Slowly he became aware of other details: the wet washcloth on his forehead, the rather ridiculous amount of sweat he was covered in, the dull pain in the back of his skull, the cooling puddle of vomit on the floor nearby. (Aziraphale told him later that while trying to wake Crowley up, the demon had rolled over, sicked up, and then passed out again. Brilliant.) He shut his eyes, if only to escape the situation for a moment. The next time he woke up, he was being settled onto a gurney in what appeared to be a room in A&E.

“Bugger,” he said out loud. 

“You’re awake,” said Aziraphale from off to the right. Crowley turned his head and saw the angel standing at the side of the gurney. He looked fucking awful, his face all puffy like he’d been crying. Crying over Crowley. Fuck.

Before Crowley could say anything, someone pushed the curtain open and came inside: a nurse, followed by a doctor. The nurse was in her forties, with a no-nonsense ponytail and an utterly unimpressed demeanor, while the doctor was probably mid-thirties and likely the kind of man who thought running ten miles on his day off was a good time. What followed was a straightforward, thoroughly humiliating interview during which the doctor calmly and professionally bullied Crowley into admitting how he’d arrived at collapsing on the floor of Aziraphale’s flat. The nurse kept him off balance by drawing blood off the IV someone had so rudely put in his arm, checking his vitals, giving him a bit of medicine, and shoving a bin under Crowley’s mouth in the nick of time to catch another round of vomiting. 

The worst part of it all was that Crowley was so addled and ill that he couldn’t come up with any good lies. By the time he’d got done admitting to eating dodgy leftovers and chain-smoking half a pack of cigarettes prior to his desperate sprint through Soho, the doctor’s eyebrows had practically climbed into his hair. (Crowley was pointedly not looking at Aziraphale. If he did, he might just pass out again in misery.)

“Right,” said the doctor. “I think you’ve probably just done a number on yourself, but we’re going to do a chest x-ray to be certain we’re not missing anything.” He went on a bit further, but Crowley fixed a sickly smile on his face and tuned the rest of it out.

Finally, the two left, leaving Crowley alone with Aziraphale. Crowley seriously contemplated just passing out again, but before he could set himself on it, Aziraphale was at the bedside, taking one of Crowley’s hands in both of his and leaning over him.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale. His voice had taken on the gentle, firm tone he got when he was dead-set on something. His face hurt to look at, no less beautiful and stubborn for the obvious pain lining his lovely blue eyes. Crowley knew perfectly well he had as much a chance of escaping chastisement now as he did of landing a new job as Cupid, so he just groaned and settled in. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

Crowley sighed. “I’m sorry, angel,” he said. “I, ah. Didn’t mean to sick up on your floor.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t care about that at all.”

Crowley shut his eyes for a moment, trying to think. “Do you mean, why did I avoid you, eat a bunch of garbage, smoke way too many cigarettes, and then turn up at your flat shouting like a madman?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. The word quavered a bit as he said it and the hands holding Crowley’s tightened for a moment. He seemed to be bracing for something; what, Crowley couldn’t say. “I would very much like to know why. W-Why you did that.”

Oh, Hell. Crowley turned on his side, curling towards the angel like one of his plants towards the sunlight. He opened his eyes and stared at Aziraphale, wracking his addled brain for something worth saying. He couldn’t come up with anything aside from the truth. The truth was—awful, but it would have to do.

“I went to St. Paul’s Cathedral yesterday,” he said. Aziraphale blinked. “I mean—I went in. Spent almost three hours there.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. Then: “_Oh._ Crowley, you shouldn’t have, what if—”

“Nothing happened,” Crowley said. “Not a bloody thing. Not even a tingle.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, his face working as he tried to get something out and failed. Before he could get a proper huff going, Crowley reached out a shaky hand towards the angel’s face. Aziraphale froze, staring at Crowley’s hand, and for a heartbeat Crowley hesitated.

Then the shadow that fell upon him in the park came into his mind, and he realized he simply couldn’t lie to either himself or Aziraphale any longer. Crowley leaned forward, cradling Aziraphale’s face in his palm. He stroked his thumb along the elegant ridge of the angel’s cheekbone, watching Aziraphale’s eyes widen at his touch.

“I’ve just been—scared,” Crowley said. It came out a croaky whisper, his throat too wrecked for proper speech. “Scared of how we got like this. Scared of what it means now we don’t work for either of our sides anymore. Scared of—of losing you.” He forced this last out, the words falling from his lips even as fresh fear spiked in his chest. 

Aziraphale softened, a gentleness coming into his expression that made Crowley ache to see. He lifted his hand, covering Crowley’s hand against his face with his own. “I’ve been scared too,” Aziraphale said. His voice was so quiet. “For so long. Scared of failing you, and—of what the consequences would be of admitting that I love you.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open. He made a few weird, incoherent noises as his heart thumped erratically in his chest, his human body leaping to react to a feeling inexpressible in mortal form. He couldn’t seem to speak, or think, or do anything but lay there in shock on the fucking gurney.

Aziraphale swallowed, a tremble coming into his voice as he kept talking. “This past day and a half were really dreadful, you know,” he said. “I thought—I was afraid you’d changed your mind, or something, and then you turn up shouting and looking a sight and just _collapse_, I was so scared—”

“You absolute bastard, how can you just _say it_,” Crowley blurted, catching up several seconds too late. Aziraphale stared at him. “I’ve been eating my tongue for six thousand years and you j-just, just say you l-l-love me just like that—”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “My darling,” he whispered. He was very close now, bent over the gurney railing at what had to be a terrible angle. “Six thousand years?”

Crowley groaned. He’d already humiliated himself once today, why not go for a double-header? “Yes, you bastard, for six thousand years.”

Aziraphale made an absolutely impossible noise. To Crowley’s great shock, the angel’s eyes welled once more with fresh tears. “Say it,” Aziraphale whispered. His hand squeezed hard around the one of Crowley’s he was still holding. “Please.”

_Oh,_ thought Crowley, utterly stunned. “I love you,” he said. His mouth burned as he said it, the words too much and yet not nearly enough all at once. They singed his tongue and lips with their meaning, their consequences.

Aziraphale laughed. It sounded a great deal like a sob. He leaned down, closing the distance to Crowley, and then his mouth was on Crowley’s, he was _kissing_ Crowley, and what remained of Crowley’s brain was well and truly fried.

Neither of them noticed the nurse peek her head in for just a moment before shutting the curtains again, leaving the glass door cracked. It was actually the third time she’d done so—not that either of them had noticed the first two. She stood outside the room and folded her arms over her chest, trying and failing to suppress the grin that kept surfacing. 

The physician—Alan Jensen was his name—approached her, raising an eyebrow. “Has he gone to X-ray yet?”

“Not yet,” said the nurse, whose name was Maria. “I’m giving them a minute.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” said Maria, her grin now extending from ear to ear. She pitched her voice lower and continued, “They’re having a moment. Pretty sure I just heard them confess _feelings_. It’s quite sweet actually, pair of old queens sorting themselves out like that.”

“Oh, well,” said Dr. Jensen, nonplussed. “Good for them.” 

Through the cracked door and curtain came the sound of someone coughing, as well as a few gagging noises. It sounded not unlike someone who had just thoroughly kissed a man hell-bent on turning his throat and mouth into an ashtray some 60 minutes earlier. “You really must brush your teeth before we do that again, my dear,” said a voice from within. He didn’t sound nearly as put out as Maria would have, had she been in his shoes.

“That’s my cue,” she said, and she ducked in through the curtain. She did her best to not notice how the blond man stepped quickly back from the gurney, or the way her idiot patient reached a hand after him before settling down again. But really it took all of her professionalism to ignore the way they were now looking at each other: eyes too wide, mouths soft, a little tremble in their hands. 

Good for them, she thought. Better late than never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [orchid in question](https://www.123rf.com/photo_16562024_flower-of-doritaenopsis-orchid-in-garden-in-washington-dc-usa.html) is a very beautiful, very expensive variety that I couldn't help but think a pining lovesick flower nerd like Crowley would be immediately drawn to.


	8. the book of love: 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have finally confessed their feelings for each other; now they get to act on them. Naturally there's some hiccups in that process.
> 
> (This chapter's working title was "THE MORTIFYING ORDEAL OF BEING KNOWN.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH SHIT here comes the awkwardness and the fluff! Please note I have updated the tags to reflect this chapter, there is some discussion of dysphoria. Also, this is the chapter that earns the M rating, in case that's a thing you need to be wary of. Thanks for reading!

Before sending them on their way, the nurse at A&E came in to tell them Crowley was expected to be fine, as well as to give them a prescription and a list of what to expect while Crowley recovered. This included a litany of possible bodily dysfunction that irrationally made Crowley want to hurl the remote at her. Thankfully, Aziraphale took over, saving him from having to make any responses beyond noncommittal grunts before they left.

“Well that was miserable,” said Crowley, once they were outside on the pavement. He shoved his hands in his pockets and let Aziraphale hail a taxi. 

“Yes, it rather was,” said Aziraphale. “I’m glad you’ve done yourself no lasting harm, though.” 

Crowley ducked his head. Heat flared in his face before descending into his throat and chest. He was just trying to swallow his bile long enough to apologize when he felt Aziraphale take his hand again. Crowley exhaled heavily. 

“Yes, well,” he said. His heart fluttered in his chest like an excited bird. “As romantic gestures go, it was pretty shit.” 

Aziraphale’s bright laugh finally made him dare a look. The angel was smiling at him. “You’ll just have to do better,” said Aziraphale. His face was soft, sweet, a brightness in his eyes more pure than all of Heaven’s light.

Crowley stared. Suddenly he forgot how to speak, or even indeed what words were at all. His tongue split in two, his skin broke out in gooseflesh, his whole body lit up from within by a fierce and impossible warmth. 

Aziraphale said something. Crowley blinked. Reality crashed back in. “Ssssorry, what,” he said.

“The taxi’s waiting for us, darling,” said Aziraphale, and gestured. Crowley looked in front of them and saw a car parked at the curb, motor running. 

“Ah,” said Crowley intelligently. _Darling_ rang in his head like the clear toll of a bell, the kind that called you home. He allowed himself to be bundled into the back of the cab next to Aziraphale, still reeling. 

While Aziraphale was distracted, Crowley grabbed his own tongue to see if it was split or not, but all he found was a normal gross human one. All the way home he kept sneaking glances at Aziraphale, trying to decide if all of Aziraphale’s Grace had come back at once or if he was still just fucked up on too much nicotine and sketchy leftovers. 

He never did figure it out.

* * * * *

Whatever Crowley had hoped for, on the occasions he dared let himself daydream what it might be like if he could be with Aziraphale without consequences, it didn’t look like the three days after his unimpressive trip to A&E. 

The nurse’s predictions proved correct. Crowley found himself too miserable to do much aside from lay on the couch and complain. Every time he attempted something audacious like “going to the kitchen to fix himself tea,” his body decided that it simply had to eject everything in his stomach, post-haste. His heart raced for no reason, his head swam, his skin itched and throbbed where his clothes rubbed against it, and his mouth tasted like something that might’ve flaked off Hastur’s scalp. His head hurt constantly. 

Literally the only silver lining about this regrettable situation was Aziraphale fussing over him. Crowley detested learning all the different, equally unpleasant interactions one could have with a toilet bowl, but getting to lay on the couch with his head pillowed in Aziraphale’s lap while the angel stroked his head and neck made it almost worth it.

Bev Rosenberg phoned the morning of the second day. Aziraphale spent almost thirty minutes on the phone with her, which Crowley found rather curious but couldn’t be bothered to go investigate. He got a lot more curious when Bev herself turned up later that afternoon with several containers’ worth of home-cooked matzoh ball soup, however.

“What on Earth was that about?” Crowley demanded, after their human of mercy had swanned out of Aziraphale’s flat. “What did you _say_ to her?” They were at the kitchen table now, Crowley having improved to the point of being able to walk about without suffering instant stomach-related karma for it. (Bev’s soup tasted amazing. Crowley suffered a brief stab of admiration for the woman, at war with his irritation at her interference.)

Aziraphale went pink. He spent a few moments adjusting the fit of his shirt and vest, studying his nails before finally answering. “Well, I must admit I was quite beside myself the other day, when I wound up going to her flat for dinner without you,” he said. “I… she asked what was bothering me, and we spent quite a while talking.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. He paused. “How much did you tell her, exactly?”

“An edited version of things,” said Aziraphale. “She was very kind. Lovely woman.”

“Beside yourself,” Crowley said slowly. He should not _enjoy_ the thought of Aziraphale’s distress over him, but he couldn’t deny a certain amount of satisfaction, either.

Aziraphale squared his shoulders. “I thought you were going to leave me, Crowley,” he said. Crowley choked on a mouthful of matzoh ball. “I thought I’d—well.” He deflated. “I thought I’d held you off too long. Hurt you too badly for you to get past. I know how much you’ve hated my loyalty to Heaven, and… I’m so sorry. I’ve been a fool.” 

Crowley finally managed to swallow his soup, chasing it with a desperate gulp of water to give himself a moment to think. He wondered vaguely how it was possible for Aziraphale to go from _you go too fast for me, Crowley_ and _I don’t think my side would like that very much_ to whatever speed _this_ was. Then again, they were rather short on time these days.

Aziraphale went quiet, watching him. Crowley could see the anxiety in the way he held himself, but he forced himself to take his time anyway, trying to find the right words. It felt terribly important, somehow. _You couldn’t hurt me any worse than She already did_ wouldn’t help, and also was possibly not true. _I would rather be struck down by you than live with anyone else_ was similarly unhelpful. 

“I don’t think I’m capable of giving you up, angel,” he said finally. “I didn’t help save the world just for you, but—I don’t see much point in being in it either, if I don’t get to share it with you.”

Aziraphale let out a shaky little breath. He gave a jerky nod, then reached across the table, taking Crowley’s hand in one of his. “I feel quite the same, my darling,” he said. “You are more precious to me than anything else on Earth.”

Crowley swallowed hard. His heart started rabbiting in his chest again—human bodies really were such garbage sometimes. He didn’t understand how it could hurt so badly to hear Aziraphale say that, how it could burn through him like holy fire, eating him up from the inside until there was nothing left of him but this sweet and terrible joy. 

He raised Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles, trying to summon some poise. “Angels apologizing to demons,” he murmured. “What _is_ the world coming to?”

“Better days, I hope,” said Aziraphale.

* * * * *

Time passed.

Crowley recovered from his fling with nicotine overdose and food poisoning. At first he feared Aziraphale would come to his senses, but with every day and week that passed that fear lessened. Crowley counted the days at first—_time spent human_ as well as _days Aziraphale has let me kiss him_—then eventually stopped counting. He had more important things to pay attention to now. 

He and Aziraphale spent every day together now, without any pretenses. Crowley gave up making excuses to stop by Aziraphale’s bookshop, or to ask Aziraphale to come back to his flat. Likewise, whenever Crowley had to leave to go do errands (and now they did actually have errands to do, things like _check on the Bentley_ and _get groceries_ and _bring home takeout_), Aziraphale would ask when Crowley thought he’d be back. “Don’t take long, my dear,” he’d say, and he’d shoot Crowley a warm look that never failed to turn him to goo. 

Their regular trips took on more dear significance. Shopping for clothes, hunting for old books, buying supplies for Crowley’s plants, going out to dinner—all of it had a new layer. Aziraphale seemed to delight in casual little touches, like taking Crowley’s hand or linking their arms to walk down the street. Sometimes it was even just a soft glance across a crowded room. But all of it was enough to make Crowley’s heart race, just a little. 

He wasn’t very good at the casual intimacy himself, not yet, though he ate up every one of Aziraphale’s glances and touches and soft words. He’d get better at it, he thought; maybe it would come with practice. Or maybe he’d always be garbage at it. But Crowley still circled Aziraphale like a planet around the sun, reaching for that healing light with every ounce of his soul. 

They still kept separate flats, at least so far, but spillage from one to the other had begun in earnest. A number of Crowley’s plants found themselves relocated to the bookshop and to the flat above it; Crowley had had a number of bookshelves put into his flat, as well as cozier armchairs and a particularly hideous tartan wool blanket that lived on his stylish couch. Crowley rather suspected that he would eventually be the one to cave and give up his flat, mainly because the angel loved his bookshop so very much and Crowley had only ever kept a flat so as to have somewhere safe to sleep.

One thing stopping them was that Crowley’s kitchen was much larger than Aziraphale’s. This hadn’t mattered when they didn’t need to eat unless they chose to, but it was quite a bit more relevant these days. They discovered this when, after a good two months of denial, they finally started taking cooking classes. 

Well, Crowley was; Aziraphale had chosen to sign up for baking classes. This resulted in a great deal of Aziraphale puttering around Crowley’s kitchen with his shirt-sleeves rolled up as he kneaded dough with a great deal more enthusiasm than skill. Crowley, who had after all been coming up with excuses just to be around Aziraphale for sixty centuries, did not require a great deal of persuasion to try every single thing Aziraphale produced, no matter how inedible. Honestly, he had to work just to keep from being too obvious in how stupid the sight of the angel in relative dishabille made him. Aziraphale all unbuttoned and relaxed, covered in flour and beaming across a debris-strewn counter, was one of the most blessed sights that Crowley had ever seen. 

For his own part, Crowley found that cooking for Aziraphale was a great deal more satisfying than cooking for its own sake. The very first time he produced a dinner that actually tasted how it was supposed to (coq au vin) and he watched pleasure crease Aziraphale’s face at that first bite, Crowley understood why people went to such lengths. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, the syllable made obscene. “That’s just marvelous.” Crowley watched Aziraphale make _that face_ over something he, Crowley, had made, and wanted to throw himself down the stairs from how badly he needed to make it happen again. 

Food was not the only way Crowley found to elicit those noises from his angel, however. Long hot baths in Crowley’s enormous tub produced them. So did giving him a thorough massage: Crowley straddling Aziraphale’s back and working his fingers into the angel’s shoulders, arms, flanks. His face burned from getting to touch him like this and to see Aziraphale so undone. 

Crowley had great aspirations about other, distinctly human methods of getting exciting noises out of Aziraphale. But it turned out that simply watching (and reading) lots of stories that ended in romantic kissing did not actually make one very good at it, much to Crowley’s disgust. He’d done a bit with humans over the years, but most of that involved a lot more teeth and violence than was warranted in kissing someone you actually liked—at first, anyway.

(The first time Crowley tried to surprise Aziraphale with a kiss, he misjudged the angle spectacularly. He bashed their noses together so hard that his eyes watered for ten minutes. He went and hid in the bedroom in a sulk, buried under covers and head beneath a pillow, wishing devoutly that he could miracle himself somewhere else long enough to recover something of his pride. Aziraphale gave him a few minutes’ space before coming after him to coax him out. The laughter in the angel’s voice didn’t do much to soothe Crowley’s wounded pride, but the soft kisses to the back of his neck went a long way.)

The physical proximity was quite heady for Crowley. Indeed, just being allowed to touch at all was still a rush. More than once Crowley found himself wishing he could vanish back into his snake form, the better to curl around Aziraphale and soften the edge of all the exhausting feelings touching his angel like this stirred up in him. Several times those first few weeks, Crowley had to break off in the middle of kissing or simply lying tangled together to hide his face in the pillows or in Aziraphale’s neck.

Somehow, the angel seemed to understand. He never questioned or pushed Crowley, just held him and stroked his hair, or just laid next to him in bed until Crowley felt less overwhelmed.

Luckily, improvement came swiftly with practice—and practice was very, very enjoyable. Crowley soon found he could lose hours wrapped around Aziraphale, kissing until their lips were sore and lungs ached for breath. This was as much fun on the couch as it was in bed. Same with against the wall in the front hallway, in the back of a taxi, or once, memorably, in the men’s room at Aziraphale’s favorite patisserie. 

Crowley tried not to think too hard about why Aziraphale should be better at this particular set of human activities than him. He’d always known Aziraphale was something of a hedonist—just sharing one meal with the angel was enough to see that. But it somehow hadn’t occurred to Crowley that it would extend to all pleasures.

This was a polite way of saying that once they finally got past the point of Crowley falling to pieces every time he saw or touched more than a few inches of Aziraphale’s bare skin, he thought it’d be smooth sailing. So he tried to take things to the next level. He led the angel very confidently into the bedroom, and Aziraphale seemed happy to let him—right up until it became crystal clear that Crowley had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

“Darling,” said Aziraphale. His voice was sweet, soft. Crowley was kneeling over him, Aziraphahle’s trousers undone, his shirt off, and _Satan_ he looked delicious, but Crowley—Crowley was frozen. “Do you need to stop?”

“No,” blurted Crowley. “I mean—I don’t—that isn’t—” Heat spread through his face and down into his throat, and suddenly he was scuttling backwards. He scrambled right off the bed, hitting the floor hard but not hard enough to stop him backing all the way up to the wall, where he put his face in his hands.

“Crowley!” Crowley heard the bed creak, then the floor. Aziraphale’s hands were on Crowley’s wrists, trying gently to tug them away from Crowley’s face. Crowley made a wounded noise and hunched in on himself, and Aziraphale stopped immediately. “Dearest, what’s wrong? We can stop, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” 

“Nghkkk,” Crowley said. He wished desperately that he could turn into a serpent and slither away somewhere. Sleeping for a hundred years in whatever dark hole he found sounded like an excellent idea.

“It’s really fine,” Aziraphale said. Crowley felt him move, settling onto the floor next to him, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. “Crowley, darling, please.” He sounded so unhappy. Well, of course he did; he must think he’d done something wrong. But it wasn’t him at all.

“M’sorry,” Crowley mumbled, into his hands. (It was difficult to say, regardless of whether he should or not. Demons weren’t supposed to be sorry about anything.) “It’s—it’s not you, angel, I swear.”

“If you don’t want sex right now, we don’t have to do anything of the sort,” Aziraphale said. “Now or ever.” He put his hand on Crowley’s knee and squeezed gently.

“S’not that,” Crowley said. 

“What?”

“Ugh,” said Crowley, and dropped his hands. He was dismayed to find that his face was wet, his eyes leaking traitorously. This was _not_ how tonight was supposed to go. “It’s—ugh, fuck.”

Aziraphale looked at him. Crowley tensed, unable to look over and meet those perfect blue eyes. But instead of pressing more, “Let’s take a bath” was what Aziraphale said. Crowley sagged with relief. 

Aziraphale got the bath going, filling the enormous tub to the brim with steaming water and one of those idiotic bath bombs, one that smelt of sandalwood and cedar, filling the tub with sparkles and pleasant green foam. (Crowley had complained, loudly, about how ridiculous bath bombs were, right up until Aziraphale had come over from the bookshop earlier than he’d said he would one day and caught Crowley in the bath with one.) 

Finally, they were both in the tub: Aziraphale with his back against the side, Crowley settled between his thighs, Crowley’s back to Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley sank into the water, eyes shut, letting the air from his lungs in a shaky exhale. Clever fingers stroked along Crowley’s shoulder and down his arm, Aziraphale’s other arm wrapped around Crowley’s waist. Aziraphale murmured soft praise in his ear, gentle reassurances and flattery and other garbage that Crowley nonetheless ate up like the desperate, lonely creature he was deep down.

It was delicious. And like all cold-blooded creatures, Crowley found the warmth incredibly relaxing. His racing heart slowed, his trembling stopped, his breathing evened out. Finally he let his head settle back against Aziraphale’s chest, the worst of the panic drifting away in the sweet-smelling water. This was still much more intimate than he was used to, but Aziraphale holding him like this in the hot water was somehow soothing instead of titillating. 

Crowley waited until the water was approaching tepid and almost all the tension had drained from his body. Aziraphale had still said nothing. Crowley thought about what Aziraphale said before—that he’d been afraid he’d hurt Crowley too badly for Crowley to forgive him—and knew that as much as he did not want to have this conversation, he couldn’t let it lie. He couldn’t let Aziraphale think this was all on him.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” Crowley mumbled, because _that_ was going to clear things up.

“And what idea is that, my dear?” Aziraphale kissed the back of his neck, and Crowley shivered.

“That… that I don’t want to—with you.”

“I already told you, it’s perfectly fine if you don’t,” said Aziraphale. “It won’t change my feelings for you one iota. I promise, Crowley.”

“It’s really not that, though. I just—” Crowley took a deep breath. “I just don’t know how,” he said helplessly. 

There was a pause. “But you’ve seduced any number of humans over the years,” Aziraphale said. His voice was soft, careful, not as petulant as he got sometimes when Crowley was being deliberately contrary.

“It’s not the same thing, angel,” Crowley said. “That was… work. I never liked doing it, anyway, because it was always just a role—I could sort of, you know, see what they wanted me to be, and then it was easy to be that, to fulfill whatever bullshit they wanted out of me. But you’re—this is different.”

“It _is_ different.” Aziraphale reached forward, gently turning Crowley’s face towards him with a touch at his jaw. “But that means you don’t have to play a role for me. As delightful as the thought that you want to please me is, I won’t ask this of you if you don’t also want it, my love.”

Crowley was having enough trouble articulating a good response to this before Aziraphale landed that final killing blow. He sucked in a shaky breath and tried to rally his senses. “I _do_ want it,” he said, at length. “I just don’t quite know what to do. And—” He dropped his eyes, a familiar shame creeping into his face and neck. 

_They just said to get up there and make some trouble,_ he’d said once. He’d seen the wonder in Eve’s eyes, preened under her attention and warmth. She’d wanted to be more than just a rib, and Crowley couldn’t see what was wrong with wanting that, with wanting to _know_ things. 

He should have. 

“You can tell me, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, drawing him back to the moment. “It’s all right.”

Crowley licked his lips and sank a little lower in the water. “I’m a demon,” he said, voice so low it was a wonder Aziraphale could hear him at all. “What if I—I’m not capable of it. What if I can’t do any of it without hurting you? I can’t live with that, Aziraphale, I couldn’t stand it—”

“Rubbish,” said Aziraphale firmly. “Pure poppycock.”

“You say the dumbest things,” Crowley said, feeling slightly insane. “Anyway, you don’t know!”

“I do know.” Aziraphale draped himself around Crowley now, wrapping both arms around Crowley’s skinnier frame. “I know you, Crowley. I’ve seen you, I’ve _been_ you. My dearest companion all these years, and you think that I don’t know you?”

Crowley shuddered. Aziraphale kissed the side of his neck, just beneath his ear. The terrible sweetness in that touch was at odds with the strength of Aziraphale’s arms, but that had always been his way. He hadn’t been picked to be one of the four archangels guarding the gates of Eden for no reason. That was the very first thing Crowley had fallen in love with about him—that a being so strong should choose over and over to be gentle and soft, to win with kindness instead of brute force.

Perhaps right now Aziraphale was only mortal, but Crowley still felt himself wrapped in white wings, in warmth and love and security. It felt like what Heaven should be. 

“Demons aren’t supposed to be able to love,” Crowley said stupidly. He leaned back into Aziraphale, turning his face so that their cheeks were pressed together. 

“Angels aren’t supposed to give away their flaming swords,” Aziraphale said. Crowley could tell that he was smiling. This was by no means the most brilliant of rejoinders, but Crowley found he felt a bit better anyway.

* * * * *

Things improved from there, although not instantly. 

Aziraphale was—well, himself. He was patient, kind, endlessly thoughtful, so tender Crowley seriously thought his face was going to melt off his skull from how hot his cheeks always went. 

He was _also_ so incredibly debauched that he made porn stars look prudish. He certainly made Crowley feel like a pearl-clutching auntie, anyway. Maybe it was just that Aziraphale approached every single act of intimacy like it was his favorite dessert at the Ritz—something to be savored, enjoyed. Crowley was not used to the idea of anyone enjoying _him_ so viscerally. To have Aziraphale on top of him, eyes hungry, mouth open in a sinful sigh as he sampled all there was of Crowley was quite the experience.

Aziraphale also made it very clear that he loved it when Crowley returned the favor, something that Crowley had an easier time with. He found he’d do anything at all in order to make Aziraphale moan, or sigh, or stutter out those desperate noises. He could spend an hour on his knees, the angel’s hands fisted in his hair as Crowley swallowed him down, and he was happy as it was possible to be. 

This realization led to a number of subsequent yet-more-embarrassing discoveries. For example, Crowley was absolutely _furious_ to discover that he very much liked it when Aziraphale took charge of him in bed. Even worse, Aziraphale had somehow discovered that the string to pull that would utterly undo one Anthony J. Crowley was to _say nice things to him._ Fucking humiliating, that. But he just couldn’t help himself. Crowley had suspected all along that actually getting to be intimate with the angel would be like someone had unlocked all of the best parts of Heaven for him, but the reality was so much more intense than he’d thought.

Aziraphale touching him? Amazing. Aziraphale kissing him? Heavenly. Aziraphale on top of him, eyes dark with desire, breathing hard and full of need? Crowley.exe has stopped working. But a whispered _that’s it my darling, so good for me_ or _yes, perfect, you’re so perfect Crowley_ was by itself enough to send Crowley to pieces, to make him bury his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder and whine like a broken thing. 

(Crowley did actually cry the first time Aziraphale brought him off, his messy noises and damp cheeks hidden against Aziraphale’s throat. How it was possible the angel could commit such heavenly atrocities against him when he didn’t even have use of his halo or wings was beyond Crowley, but Aziraphale was wise enough to just kiss his tears away and not mention the incident again.)

The only major downside of finally being intimate with Aziraphale was the fact it made Crowley very aware of his own body. This wasn’t totally awful—he’d chosen this particular corporation because he liked it, thank you, and he generally found a vulva more comfortable and better-suited to him personally. (Aziraphale also seemed to enjoy it very much, judging from how frequently he wanted to spend time with his face between Crowley’s thighs.)

But unlike Aziraphale, Crowley had spent most of his existence moving fluidly between a variety of different corporations, and right now he was stuck. It was being stuck that was the problem, really. Crowley had spent decades at a time between changing corporations before, and this one _was_ his preferred configuration. But the fact that he couldn’t change right now even if he wanted to chafed.

He found himself seeking out sunny spots in front of the window, curling up on the floor in a pile of blankets like the serpent deep in his soul. He spent days avoiding his reflection in mirrors, windows, even his mobile, because he knew the mismatch between his brain and his outsides would send his mood plummeting. The anxiety came and went, worse some days than others, but Crowley did his best to ignore it. 

Soon, he told himself. They’d figure out what had happened soon. Anathema would remember a prophecy of Agnes’s that she’d overlooked before, or Aziraphale would chance upon a dusty tome in someone’s fucking estate sale. Then he and Crowley could go back to living their lives the way they had before. Then Crowley could flit between a dozen corporations in a day and no one could fucking stop him.

(Crowley pointedly did not examine the fact that he had no idea what else he and Aziraphale would be doing as their supernatural selves. That was a problem for future!Crowley.)

Aziraphale was always so fucking understanding, even when Crowley was chafing around the edges and couldn’t stand to be around himself. Crowley wasn’t certain Aziraphale completely understood why he sometimes felt wrong in his own skin, but for now, it didn’t matter. They just had to wait a little bit longer, he was sure. He could get through this. 

But the days passed, and though he and Aziraphale got better at being intimate, their mortal corporations stayed mortal. No angels came from Heaven to demand or give answers. No demons from Hell appeared either, much to Crowley’s confusion and frustration. Nothing arrived except cards and letters in the mail from their various humans. 

(They’d updated Anathema and Adam on Uriel’s appearance and the little demonstration involved, and _someone_—definitely Beverly—had informed their humans in Tadfield of the update in Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship.)

Newt actually sent flowers, which Crowley wanted desperately to be mad about and couldn’t. It helped that they were gorgeous: roses, bluebells, a spray of baby’s breath, tigerlilies, a golden sunflower. Ridiculous. Crowley put them in the atrium with his other flowers and did _not_ spend an entire hour fussing over them the day they arrived.

Bev sent Scotch. Expensive Scotch. Satan, Crowley was starting to be downright fond of the woman, busybody or no.

“It’s very thoughtful, don’t you think?” Aziraphale said. He admired the card that Anathema had sent along, then added it to the collection he’d started on a bookshelf. 

“I suppose,” said Crowley. _None of their fucking business,_ he thought but did not say. All the attention made his head hurt, and he wasn’t sure why. He’d finally gotten to the point with Aziraphale that he’d dreamed of for centuries, and they were apparently free of meddling from their respective sides.

So why did he still feel so out of sorts?

That night, Crowley dreamed. Not of Eden, or of the Fall, or of any of the myriad events on Earth he’d shared with Aziraphale. Crowley dreamed of stars, of wheeling nebulas and vast, glorious galaxies. He floated on huge black wings through existence as it was before the war that splintered Heaven’s children. The Pillars of Creation twisted over him, vast and majestic, a part of the constellation that ironically bore Crowley’s name. 

He loved this place the most in all of the many galaxies. Newborn stars hid themselves in the long arms of the pillars, their youthful fierceness not yet ready to be known. Crowley inhaled starstuff, dragged his fingers through dust clouds and cosmic gas, and felt himself lit from within with Her love. Extending a finger through the dust cloud, a spark lit up at his touch, and another star burst into existence, singing in perfect harmony with the other stars waiting to welcome it to life. 

Crowley sat up with a gasp. “Fuck,” he hissed. He dragged a trembling hand down his face.

“Darling?” Aziraphale twisted around on the bed next to him. “What’s wrong?”

It was the middle of the night, Crowley saw, just past three am. He swallowed hard and spared a moment to be grateful for the darkness and the fact that Aziraphale was too sleepy to be able to really see his expression. 

“Nothing,” he said, and carefully wiped his face dry. “It’s nothing, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pillars of Creation are a real astronomical phenomena, and [they are absolutely stunning.](https://www.nasa.gov/image-feature/the-pillars-of-creation) They are in the star system that is part of the Serpens constellation, which you can read about [here](https://www.constellation-guide.com/constellation-list/serpens-constellation/).


	9. the book of love: 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale emerge from their honeymoon phase enough to reconnect with their humans, except for one in particular. Anathema and Adam have a few requests. Crowley has a run-in with a Horseperson that doesn't go how he expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please enjoy this update and know that I had to drive 45 minutes from my dad's house out in the sticks to get to working wifi.

Somewhere in the flat, “Killer Queen” was playing.

“Fuck,” Crowley said. He left off spraying the bromeliad in front of him—damn thing had been ignoring his threats for weeks and was on the verge of succumbing to what appeared to be a resurgence of Pollution’s rot. Scowling, Crowley strode into the kitchen and snatched his mobile up before Freddy Mercury could start in about caviar and cigarettes. 

He swiped his thumb across the screen and said, “Witch.”

“Crowley,” said Anathema, her voice cordial. “I was afraid you might not pick up.”

“What, all right, that was one time—”

“Four times. Is my ringtone still Psycho Killer?”

Crowley grinned at the wall. “Nah,” he said. “Did you just call to complain, then?”

“Sort of,” said Anathema breezily. “Really I was just wondering if you and Aziraphale had gotten through the honeymoon phase yet. We’d like to see you again at some point in our lifetimes. This year would be nice.”

Crowley winced, an expression he’d flatly deny making even if Aziraphale was right there to witness it. “Sor—shut it, you.”

“I don’t want to know details,” Anathema said. “Are you free this weekend? Adam and his friends have been asking when you’ll be coming next.”

Ah. That was. Crowley leaned against the counter, scowling fiercely at the warmth that spread through him like he’d sank into a hot bath. “That should be fine,” he said. He’d been thinking of taking Aziraphale to Paris for the weekend, but honestly the weather was supposed to be shit. And it _had_ been a little while since they’d been to Tadfield—almost six weeks, he realized. “When?”

“Saturday. Come at one, I have some research I want to run by you and Aziraphale,” said the witch, who sounded appreciably happier. “The children will swing by around three, I expect.”

“Alright then,” said Crowley. “See you on Saturday.” 

“Congratulations, by the way.”

“Oh, piss off,” said Crowley. He rang off, setting the mobile down on the counter and heaving a loud sigh. He dragged his hand over his face, unsure if he was more irritated at Anathema for bugging him or himself for being weirdly happy that she had. 

Aziraphale arrived at Crowley’s flat an hour later, arms full of groceries and wine. Naturally, he was perfectly amenable to going to Tadfield. “So lovely of her to check on us,” he said fondly. “I suppose we really have been a bit absent.”

“Listen,” said Crowley. “This is the first time in our lives I’ve had you all to myself without Gabriel or Beelzebub peering over our bloody shoulders. The humans are just going to have to deal with me being selfish.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. It was the prim little smile he got when he feeling smug. “Oh, I suppose I’ll just have to bear up under the pressure somehow,” he said, and gave Crowley a come-hither glance. 

Crowley went. It was some time before they got around to putting the groceries away. 

Saturday arrived, bringing rain with it. Crowley drove the Fiesta and grumbled about it the whole way to Tadfield. It turned out Anathema had found a number of very old books, sent to her by her mother and unearthed from who knew where. Crowley was impressed; one of the books was actually written in Enochian. “That looks like something I last saw in John Dee’s collection,” Crowley said, peering at the squiggly lines marching across the vellum. 

“This is brilliant,” Aziraphale said happily. “Very promising. Excellent work, my dear.”

“I’m going to keep this one,” Anathema said—she tapped one of the weightier tomes, its beveled pages each three times as thick as a modern page. “It’s a book of myths and legends; some of them seem familiar. I’m going to cross-reference it against the card catalog of Agnes’s prophecies.”

Crowley (who had been absorbed in watching Aziraphale’s ‘happy book’ chair dance) glanced over at her. “Didn’t all of those get destroyed during Armageddon?”

“My copies did,” said Anathema. “My mother made a photocopy of everything before I left for England, however. She sent me her copies when I asked her for them.”

“Ah,” said Crowley. He wondered how Newt felt about that, but as the country’s most successful witch finder was currently out getting groceries for dinner, Crowley couldn’t exactly ask him. 

(He privately thought Anathema’s whole research endeavor was rubbish. She was clearly still substituting their unusual circumstances into the place Agnes Nutter’s book once went. Anathema was a clever witch, but she was a clever witch who was used to having all of her singular energies pointed at one specific task. Crowley wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with being that task, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her to sod off, either. There was always the off chance she’d actually help them figure out what the fuck was going on.)

The Them turned up just before three, as promised. They spent roughly sixty seconds running roughshod over propriety (“Why did it take the two of you so long to figure out you liked each other?” Adam asked, going straight for the throat) and then barrelled onward to more important questions—about Heaven, Hell, the Horsepeople, and everything else in between. They’d apparently been saving them up since Crowley and Aziraphale’s last visit to Tadfield, and were now dying to unload them all at once. 

“Where are the Horsepeople now?” Wensleydale asked. “Did we banish them for good?”

“I read a book about the Black Plague, and it sounded absolutely vile,” Adam said earnestly. “Were you there for it? Did people’s armpits really swell up like grapefruits?”

“Was there really a Flood?” Pepper asked. “My mum says that’s rubbish distributed by the Church to subjugate the masses.”

“If they’ve turned you human, does that mean those other lot coming back? Like that one from your side, with the weird flies on their head,” asked Brian. (Crowley thought this was rich coming from a boy who had a county’s worth of mud on his person.)

All of these questions would have been fine, really, though answering them was a bit… tricky. Crowley and Aziraphale did their best—Crowley did not think any of the children would be well served by hearing the actual details of some of those events, and he did not require prompting from Aziraphale to censor his recounting—but the Them were insatiable, in the way of precocious children with indulgent parents. 

The whole experience was touching, if a bit mystifying. Really, Crowley was baffled why any of the children, excepting possibly Adam, cared the least bit about him or Aziraphale. But apparently they did. Eventually, the Them finished tea and biscuits and went on their way, but not before asking when Crowley and Aziraphale would be back next. 

“Uh,” said Crowley. “Soon, I think.” He glanced at Aziraphale in time to catch the angel’s pleased expression.

“Yes, my dears,” said Aziraphale. “Soon.”

And so they did. Soon they were back to their regular visits to Tadfield, and only rarely did they bother to pretend it was for research business. Crowley still didn’t know why the children cared, but when he realized he didn’t have to write a report justifying why _he_ was there, it became easier to just accept it. 

He supposed he might nominally have been the Cool Uncle (especially compared to the angel) but soon discarded that thought. The children’s interest should long since have waned if that had been the case.

Crowley’s befuddlement gave way to something suspiciously like guilt one day in late October. That was the day that Adam—who was over at Anathema’s by himself, awaiting the arrival of the rest of the Them—asked over hot chocolate if they would take him and his friends to London for a day trip. 

(This request was not as impossible to manage as it might once have been. Crowley had long since had to accept the fact that _someone_ had edited reality to make it so that he and Aziraphale really were Adam Young’s godparents and always had been. Adam denied it, but he still had the cheerful nonchalance of someone for whom reality still occasionally distorted itself from time to time. Crowley didn’t know what to think. But it was relatively low on the list of mysteries he cared about solving, so he let it alone.)

They accepted, of course. “_Brilliant,_” said Adam and beamed. He chattered happily at them over the next half-hour about the various things he was hoping to see at museums in London, promising he’d check on best dates and get back to them the next time Crowley and Aziraphale were in Tadfield.

Crowley was quiet on the way home. About halfway home, Aziraphale gave up pretending not to notice. “Crowley, is something the matter?”

“I dunno,” Crowley said, which was a lie. He’d been grumpy all day, even before they’d gone to Tadfield; he’d stupidly been hoping the angel wouldn’t notice.

Aziraphale waited, expression expectant. After a few beats, Crowley let out a huff. “I looked up Warlock last night.” 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale knowingly. “Still in the US, I expect?”

“Not sure,” said Crowley. “Think so.” 

“Darling, you can’t beat yourself up about it,” said Aziraphale. “There’s not really anything we can do at the moment, is there?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. ‘I’ll Be Missing You’ came up on the playlist, and Crowley jabbed his fingers at the control to skip it. Blasted car was getting ideas from the Bentley. He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine.”

This was somewhat untrue. He was already not fine on this topic and would continue to not be fine. He’d just have to work harder at distracting himself. True, Warlock was a pill by any metric you cared to use, but that did not change the fact that Crowley had spent six years watching over him alongside Aziraphale, and, well. There was a reason Crowley tried not to let himself get too invested in humans—particularly children. 

If anything happened to Adam Young and the rest of the Them because of their proximity to Crowley and Aziraphale, Crowley would have to resort to something drastic. Like summoning Beelzebub just to punt them into the Thames, maybe, human body or no. 

At least Warlock was probably safer without Crowley around. The last time he’d tried to check on where the Dowlings were, he hadn’t had much luck. For obvious security reasons, it was difficult to track down American diplomats and their families when you no longer had demonic or angelic means of bypassing safety measures. Crowley’s more human methods hadn’t really turned anything up. Checking the Dowling estate in person hadn’t turned up anything, either, but to the best of his limited searching abilities, the Dowlings weren’t even in England at the moment. 

Crowley, of course, had no idea what he’d say to the boy even if he could somehow track him down. _Hello, I used to be your nanny, times have changed a bit, just wanted to see if you were still a rotten little bastard?_ Crowley didn’t actually know which made him feel worse: being reminded he was no longer able to change this corporation’s attributes at will, or the idea that he’d more or less abandoned Warlock. 

Aziraphale was right. There was little they could do. If only that was any sort of comfort.

* * * * *

Thankfully, not all of their humans induced this kind of anxious frustration in Crowley. There were all different flavors of frustration, each with varying levels of satisfaction to go with it. 

Principal among these was Bev Rosenberg. Despite not being privy to the secret of their true identities, Bev took up a great deal of their time and energy. She had apparently taken their consent to manage a few of her community-oriented activities as tacit approval to continue being involved. Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves running events for homeless shelters, at-risk youth, and after-school programs, as well as coming regularly over to Bev’s flat for what Crowley referred to, over Aziraphale’s protests, as “dinner and gossip.” 

Crowley found he didn’t mind as much as he’d have thought. It helped that Bev was an excellent cook and an even better hostess. She was always effortlessly elegant and in control, and she seemed fond of the two of them for whatever reason. One dinner party shortly after Crowley’s embarrassing visit to A&E, she took him by the arm and led him into another room during pre-dinner drinks. 

“You seem much happier these days,” she said. “I’m glad you and Aziraphale are seeing eye-to-eye, now.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose at her. “Thanks,” he mumbled, trying not to be visibly embarrassed. “Took us long enough.”

“Perhaps,” said Bev. She smiled. “But nothing worth having comes without some trouble, does it? If it was easy, it wouldn’t be nearly as important. Anyway, you’ll have to tell me when you’ve picked out a date, I want to make sure I’m available to help you plan the ceremony.”

“Uh,” said Crowley, distracted. There was a strange scent about Bev that hadn’t been there before, and he knew he recognized it but couldn’t place it. She smelled like musk, or rich soil, something he hadn’t smelled in so so long but would never forget. 

Then her words caught up to him. “Now hold on—”

“Crowley?” came Aziraphale’s voice from the next room. “Where did you go? I wanted you to try these tarts…”

Bev patted Crowley’s arm. “That’s your cue,” she said amiably, and swanned away to go flummox someone else.

Crowley stared after her. As Bev walked off, he thought he saw a faint shimmer in the air around her, as though she were refracting light. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale appeared around the corner. Crowley glanced at him, then after Bev, but she was gone. 

“Sorry, angel,” said Crowley. “Just having a moment. Show me these tarts.”

He kept a close eye on Bev for the rest of that night. But whatever it was he thought he saw, it did not reappear—and neither did the strange smell. Maybe his mortal body was just having an off day. 

Some of their other (adult) humans were significantly more annoying than Bev—or at least, Crowley thought so. The Retired Medium and Former Part-Time Jezebel Madame Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell returned from their vacation to visit relatives in southern France in mid November. She immediately descended upon Aziraphale to inquire how he was doing “and if you’d sorted things out with that young man of yours.”

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. Every time one of their humans implied they’d taken too long to figure themselves out, he got a little more annoyed, but it was hard to stay as angry when he now did actually have Aziraphale’s love in his life. He lounged a little harder on Aziraphale’s couch, doing his level best to look asleep. Then he noticed Shadwell lurking over by the stacks of occult books and decided he needed a distraction. He got up and slinked over to the retired witchfinder. 

Shadwell noticed him immediately. “How are ye, Master Crowley,” he said. Crowley thought he sounded wary. As well he should.

“Not bad, not bad,” said Crowley. He circled the other man slowly, letting some demonic menace leak into his bearing. “Better now that Adam gave Aziraphale his body back.”

“Oh, ah, aye,” Shadwell said hastily. “That’s—yes, certainly. Congratulations are in order, I understand?”

“Something like that,” said Crowley. “I understand the same goes for you.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” said Shadwell. He drew himself up. “The Jez—Madame Tracy and I are looking at getting a house together.”

“Is that so,” Crowley said. He stopped on Shadwell’s other side, trapping the former witchfinder between Crowley and a bookshelf. Shadwell took a nervous step back. Crowley spared a moment to revel in still being able to inspire an appropriate amount of dread, and then fixed Shadwell with a meaningful Glare over the tops of his sunglasses.

“I’ll be sending you both a little something for your retirement,” he said. “So long as our understanding is clear.”

Shadwell now looked very queasy. “Uh, uh—Understanding?” he stammered. He was staring sweatily at Crowley, transfixed like a mouse trapped by a snake. 

“Yesssss,” Crowley hissed. He pressed forward, backing Shadwell into the bookcase. “The underssstanding that if you ever so much as _think_ about pointing your finger—or anything else—at Aziraphale again, I will personally make sure that you live to regret it. Every witchfinder that ever lived will turn over in their grave, cursing your name.”

Shadwell went pale. “Ye can’t, though,” he said. “You’re not—you’re not a bloody demon anymore.” But he didn’t sound terribly sure of himself.

“Can’t I,” said Crowley, slowly. “Is that something you want to bet on, Ssssergeant?”

Shadwell swallowed visibly. “Well, I don’t see any reason to go there, m’self,” he said. “Since—we’ve always had a good working relationship, aye? So, ah. We have an understanding, Master Crowley.”

“Lovely,” said Crowley. He smiled at Shadwell—the sort of smile he would give to someone he’d just thoroughly cursed—tipped his head, and then turned and snaked back off into the bookstore. 

Madame Tracy and a rather pasty-looking Shadwell left a short time after that. “Lovely woman,” Aziraphale remarked. “Sergeant Shadwell looked a bit peaky, though. You didn’t say anything to him, did you?”

Aziraphale had good reason to suspect him. Once Crowley had found out who was responsible for Aziraphale’s discorporation and the subsequent destruction of his bookshop, Crowley had been livid. The only reason Sergeant Shadwell was not currently plagued with excruciating, pustulent boils was because the angel had intervened with Crowley on his behalf. 

Crowley did not so much as bother looking up from his phone. “Just put a little fear of Crowley in him, that’s all,” he said. 

“Crowley!”

“He deserves it,” Crowley said darkly. “Besides, angel, I can’t touch him right now and you know it. If I put him off his dinner, it barely holds a candle to what he put me through.”

Aziraphale said nothing to this. Instead, he came over to Crowley, settling on the arm of the couch. Crowley shut his eyes, trying to hold onto his righteous indignation, but then soft fingers threaded through his hair and all the fight went out of him at once. 

“I would have found a way back, if Adam hadn’t intervened,” Aziraphale said. His voice was so soft as to be barely audible. Crowley went very still. “I wouldn’t have rested until I came back to you. No matter how long it took. I would never have been happy there, even if Earth got saved without me.”

Crowley swallowed. He reached up to take Aziraphale’s hand, drawing it to his mouth so he could kiss the angel’s fingers. He didn’t know how else to respond, but thankfully, Aziraphale seemed to understand.

* * * * *

Two weeks later, Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves invited to a dinner party at Anathema’s. They were ostensibly celebrating Newt finding a new job, although what that job was Crowley couldn’t quite say. Nor could he explain why Newt felt the need for employment when his girlfriend came from one of the wealthiest families in the world and seemed quite content to support them both. 

(This was a bit of a lie. Crowley found that he felt an alarming amount of kinship with Newt, whose wants in life seemed to be ‘touch computers without causing them to destroy themselves’ and ‘pleasing Anathema.’ Crowley knew a fair bit about the utter hopelessness of wanting to please someone who was far cleverer than you and also came from an incredibly old, powerful family to which you couldn’t hope to measure up, but really, Newt’s jumpers were absurd.)

Crowley started out the evening in a pretty good mood. He and Aziraphale spent the day in together, which started with simple cuddling on the couch and escalated to activities with a lot more nudity and sweat. They’d taken a nap together, followed by a long luxurious bath for Crowley while Aziraphale read his book. In short, a perfect day.

They’d made food to bring to Anathema’s party—or, well, Aziraphale had made a Swiss roll, while Crowley bought expensive wine. “Tell me again why you aren’t going to make something to bring along,” Aziraphale had said as they climbed into the car. “I would love to show you off.”

“No can do, angel,” said Crowley, shutting the door behind Aziraphale and coming round to the driver’s side. “Can’t have it getting out that I do something as ridiculous as _cook_. It’d ruin my reputation.”

“Your reputation as the demon who liked Earth too much to let it be destroyed?” Aziraphale smiled innocently at him from across the gear shift. 

Crowley glared, but it had no teeth. “You’re the only person I want to cook for,” he said after a moment. Aziraphale’s cheeks went pink, and he shot Crowley such a soft look that it took all of Crowley’s considerable self-control not to just suggest they skip the dinner party and go back inside. Instead, he put the car in drive.

He was driving the Bentley today—it was the first time Crowley had driven it to Tadfield since Armageddon, and truth be told he was a bit nervous, but he wasn’t going to admit it. And the car roared to life under his hands, fairly leaping forward as he steered it into traffic. “Lovely car,” he murmured, stroking his hand along the wheel. The Bentley purred in response. All was right with the world.

His good mood lasted all the way to Tadfield and through dinner. It was just the four of them, Crowley and Aziraphale, Anathema and Newt. They got halfway through the third bottle of wine before they landed in dangerous conversational territory. Aziraphale made the mistake of asking how Anathema’s research was going, and the witch launched into a lengthy discussion of some of the more esoteric reading material she’d found lately.

“The more I look, the more I see the two of you in stories,” she said, with the earnestness of the wine-drunk and prophecy-mad. Crowley wrinkled his nose into his wine, while Newt looked politely baffled. “That book my mother sent over is fascinating. There’s several stories that correspond to some of Agnes’s earliest prophecies—the one I see most frequently is the light-bringer, the gifts of fire and knowledge.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes, reaching to pour himself another glass of wine. Aziraphale shot him a concerned look, but Crowley ignored it. “Pretty sure the story you’re most forgetting about is the one about the serpent and the apple,” he said pointedly. “All of this other nonsense is all well and good, but we all know how that one turned out.”

Anathema drew herself up, eyes flashing. “You know, just because the Christian Bible paints the story that way doesn’t mean it’s the only interpretation,” she said. 

“Anathema, don’t you think—” Newt began.

Crowley ignored him. “Oh, this should be good,” he said. “Go on, witch. Tell me how else to spin being sent to tempt Eve to knowledge that had been forbidden her. Tell me what _interpretation_ I’ve been missing all these years.”

“Crowley, I think maybe you’ve had enough wine,” said Aziraphale, trying to intervene, but too late. 

“To a great many pagan religions and mystics, including Dianic, Druidic, and Hermetic alchemists, the serpent is a symbol of renewal and regeneration,” Anathema said. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at Crowley, seemingly unfazed by his darkening mood. “It eats its own tail to signify infinity. And it sheds its old skin and old existence, a symbolic death to allow new life to happen.”

Crowley stared at her. Indignation roared in his ears, a raw edge beneath it. “Perfect,” he said, the word sharp on his tongue. “I’m not the Serpent of Eden, I’m the Serpent of _Renewal_, and Aziraphale just gets the short end of the stick by association, does he? Kill-one-get-one-dead-free card, that’s what he drew.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale had passed ‘alarmed’ and was veering into distress.

“The myth of Prometheus—” Anathema began.

“—has Prometheus _horribly tortured_ for the rest of eternity, so don’t fucking start!” 

Anathema flushed. Distantly, Crowley registered that perhaps she was a fair bit drunker than he’d realized, but then so was he. And what’s more, he was angry. “Bullshit,” he snapped. “It’s all bullshit.”

“Weren’t you two the ones standing in front of your bosses telling them they didn’t know the plan?” Anathema demanded, visibly rallying. “That it was—what was that word you two like so much—”

“Don’t you fucking start with me—”

“Ineffable,” she cut in. “You don’t know. You _don’t_. You don’t know this is a punishment! What if it’s something else?”

“What the fuck else is it, then?” Crowley was standing before he realized it, hands flat on the table, all but shouting. “We’re finally shed of our respective sides, finally free of a bunch of assholes who never cared about the world or humans or _anything_ as more than a game of chess to be won. The world is saved and then _boom,_ we die?”

No one said anything. The echo of his words were too raw in the sudden, deafening silence. Crowley took a deep breath and turned away from the table, shoving hair out of his face. “I need some fresh air,” he said unsteadily, and fled the kitchen.

* * * * *

The lovely autumn day had turned to a chilly night. Crowley contemplated just legging it down the street to the nearest pub, but his feet led him to the Bentley instead. He leaned against the side of his car, feeling its familiar sleek metal beneath his hand. Exhaling heavily, he tipped his head back, staring up at the full moon high above.

He dug a small, beat-up box out of the pocket of his jacket—the same box he’d chainsmoked half of that day in the park. He’d told Aziraphale he wouldn’t touch the things anymore, but a smoke sounded really fucking good at that exact moment. (Not that he’d exactly been smoking much before, but as a demon it didn’t matter either way.) 

Crowley hesitated, then scowled. “Symbol of renewal, my arse,” he muttered. He put the cigarette to his lips, then felt around in his pockets for a lighter. Fucking hell, that was just his luck—

A flame appeared beneath his cigarette. The flame was attached to the tip of an oil-soaked finger, whose hand and arm belonged to a slim, white-clad person standing beside him. Crowley’s heart lodged itself in the back of his throat at the pale blue eyes staring back at him.

“Hello, Crowley,” said Pollution. They smiled. “Go on.”

Crowley stared. After a moment, he leaned forward just enough to light the end of his smoke, the cherry flaring bright in the darkness as he inhaled. Pollution shook their hand in the air, and the flame guttered out. 

“I didn’t think you smoked,” said Pollution approvingly. They were dressed the same as the last time Crowley had seen them, in their stained white-and-silver. 

“I don’t, really,” Crowley said. “Just. Special occasions.”

“My lucky night, then,” said the Horseperson. 

Crowley shrugged. It was an up-down roll of his shoulders, sinuous and noncommittal. “Must be,” he said. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he found himself less afraid than he’d thought he would be. “So, what’s on, then? Come to take a potshot at me while my defenses are down?”

“Oh, no,” said Pollution, who looked taken aback for some reason. “I can’t. None of us can.”

“What,” said Crowley. 

“No one can touch you,” Pollution said. 

“Bullshit,” Crowley said. He sucked at the cigarette, as though the smoke might contain some dregs of truth alongside the tar. “If anyone can, it’s you.” 

“No, really,” said Pollution. “There’s wards up, and we don’t know who put them there. I came to ask how you did it, actually. No one has been able to figure out how you managed it.”

“Alright, hold on,” said Crowley. He sent a plume of smoke skywards, his absolute mistrust of Pollution warring with his need for answers. “Let’s get something straight. _You_ were the ones to make me and the angel mortal, you and your buddies, I distinctly recall that particular evening—that business of yours with my plants and Aziraphale’s books.”

“Of course,” said Pollution. They smiled, and Crowley felt a bit nauseated. “But you sent the orders and put the wards up yourself, didn’t you? To get free of Heaven and Hell.”

“_What_? You’re mad.” 

Pollution stared at him. Crowley felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the cool evening air. “Your orders didn’t come from either side, did they,” Crowley said, slowly. “You’ve all been talking and none of you can figure it out. But wards, what—”

He fell silent. Abruptly, he was remembering not just what Adam said about the quality of the energy binding them, but what had happened to Uriel that day. The angel had been flung down the street, their attack rebounding off Crowley and Aziraphale with enough force to shear the side of a building away. Crowley had been adamantly avoiding thinking about the implications since then, too distracted with the question of his relationship with Aziraphale, but now the events were fairly stark.

Well, fuck. 

Crowley snorted. He took another deep drag on his cigarette, gazing steadily at Pollution, who was still watching him with avid curiosity. “I didn’t send those orders,” he said after a moment. “Neither did the angel. And I can’t even summon a fucking flame anymore, much less put up any wards.”

Pollution frowned. “Then who?”

Crowley smiled. It was a slow, mean smile, one he’d perfected after six thousand years of curses, double-crossing, and general wickedness. “Good question,” he said. 

Pollution stared at him. It was difficult to say that their face went pale or sickly, because they always looked like that, but they did take a step back, then another. A sheen of sweat broke out on their face. Crowley took another drag of his cigarette, then leaned forward and blew the smoke directly into Pollution’s face. “Piss off.”

Pollution jumped as if Crowley had smote them with holy water. As suddenly as they’d appeared, they vanished. 

Crowley smirked. After a moment his smile faded. He looked up at the sky, half-expecting to see a face, or a holy symbol, or who even knew what. Agnes Nutter might’ve, maybe. But the only thing in the sky was the moon, huge and luminous and serene. It looked like every other full moon that had risen over Earth for six millennia.

There came the noise of the cottage door opening and shutting. “Crowley?” called Aziraphale. “Where are you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, angel, just having a moment,” Crowley called back. “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He dropped the cigarette and ground it out beneath his heel, then crouched to collect the butt. Crowley took one last look up at the night sky, contemplative. Then he flipped his middle finger at the moon and headed for the front door.


	10. make them gold: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale notices Crowley is having a tough time and tries his best to help his lover. Adam has a gift; Pepper needs some help; and Crowley asks a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, friends! Between the holidays & the fact I worked very hard to get this chapter exactly right, it took a little longer. Many thanks to my THREE betas who helped me wrangle this chapter, with especial gratitude to adorable_eggplant for their feedback.

Aziraphale was concerned.

Not terribly concerned. It was just, well, Crowley had been a bit broody lately. Aziraphale was of the opinion that since admitting to their feelings and finally becoming a couple, the two of them had been doing very well together (and in more ways than one). But something was bothering the demon, and Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what it was.

True, Crowley had been shaken after Anathema’s dinner party, though that had been a few weeks ago now. (Aziraphale had been pretty shaken up himself once Crowley had told him that Pollution had appeared to him, when he was _outside and alone_. Really, Crowley was remarkably thick-headed about their current limitations sometimes.) The revelation that no one on either of their sides appeared to have any idea what had happened to them or why was yet more disturbing. But it was almost Christmas now, and since Pollution’s impromptu visit at the dinner party, no one from either Heaven or Hell had appeared to rattle their cages.

(Their Boy Formerly Known As The Antichrist seemed unsurprised when Aziraphale mentioned the Horseperson’s visit over hot chocolate one snowy afternoon in early December. “Told you,” he said sagely. “Whoever wanted you turned human didn’t want anyone else to mess you about.” But if there was more to be gleaned beyond that, Adam couldn’t see it, or at least, wasn’t telling them.)

No, this was newer than that. Aziraphale couldn’t think of anything specific he’d done wrong, either, which made it hard. Crowley always liked to complain about Aziraphale sweet-talking his plants, but both of them knew that at the moment Aziraphale could recite poetry to them in Greek and it likely wouldn’t make much difference. Similarly, Crowley could have been cranky about one of the projects they were managing for Bev—Mrs. Bishop of the women’s shelter had not stopped being resentful of how Crowley had conned her, just for one example. It could have been anything, really. His demeanor reminded Aziraphale of something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. 

But what made Aziraphale worried was how Crowley seemed to withdraw from him physically. After a week of barely even letting Aziraphale kiss him, Aziraphale could no longer contain his anxiety. When Crowley failed to appear for a lunch date, and all Aziraphale’s calls went to voicemail, the angel rallied his nerve and went over to Crowley’s flat to see what was the trouble.

“Darling,” he called, as he came in through the front door. Well, it wasn’t deadbolted against him. That was something. (Aziraphale was too anxious to notice that the deadbolt had, in fact, been set, but it had promptly unlocked itself when the force of Aziraphale’s personality came close enough.) “Crowley?”

No answer. Aziraphale glanced around, wondering if Crowley might have gone out. But no: there was the demon’s jacket draped over his throne, and there were his favorite boots in the hall. Perhaps Crowley was taking a bath?

“Crowley, it’s me,” he said, louder. “I was worried about you when you didn’t show up for lunch, so I came over to check on you.” Oh dear, he wasn’t being too pushy, was he? Crowley might just want to be alone. But what if something was really wrong?

“In here, angel,” came the faint answer. Aziraphale’s stomach unclenched itself a little. He hurried towards the voice, down the hall and into the bedroom. 

He found Crowley laying on his side in the bed, curled up under a huge mound of blankets. Only the top of Crowley’s head was visible, a tumultuous mop of red hair tumbling out from under the coverlet. “What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asked. Anxiety knocked against his ribs. 

“Ugh,” said Crowley. The lump under the covers shifted irritably. “It’s—don’t worry about it.”

“Really, my dear, don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m going to worry.” Aziraphale came around the side of the bed and sat on the edge closest to the Crowley-shaped lump. “Are you ill?”

Crowley made a rude noise. All of a sudden the covers were flung back, revealing a very cross, rumpled-looking snake demon. There were dark shadows under his eyes that Aziraphale did _not_ care for. “Not physically,” he said. His voice was sour.

Aziraphale hesitated. “Was it something I did?” he ventured after a moment.

“What? No, don’t be a twat!”

“Well, you’ve been avoiding me all week, and you didn’t show up for lunch! And—” Aziraphale flushed. Crowley stared at him, far too much incredulity in those lovely amber eyes. “You don’t seem to want me to kiss you,” Aziraphale said, softer.

“Oh, bugger,” Crowley muttered. He sat up, the blankets puddling around his waist. “It’s not you, angel. It’s—it’s—this stupid body.” 

Aziraphale looked at him uncomprehendingly. Crowley dragged his hand down his face, his expression the very epitome of disgust. “I can’t change my corporation,” he said. “Just got the one configuration right now, and—and now we don’t know when there might be an end in sight, being stuck is really getting to me. I don’t know how humans do it.”

It took Aziraphale a few more moments to catch on, and then realization came to him like a torch lit in the dark. “_Oh_,” he said. Then the dismay caught up. “Oh, blast. I’m so sorry.”

“Everything feels wrong.” Crowley stared at his elegant, long-fingered hands, an awful slump to his shoulders. “And this wretched body can’t handle anything I’d normally do when things start feeling wrong, and it can’t change into a different shape, and human bodies are so—so fucking _stupid_…”

Aziraphale’s heart ached. “Well, you must know that I love this stupid body of yours, and I would hate to see you hurt it,” he said. He kept his voice soft, gentle. Crowley made a face, his eyes still on his lap. After another moment without a response, Aziraphale slowly reached for one of Crowley’s hands.

He wasn’t sure Crowley would let him take it, but he did. Aziraphale laced their fingers together, tracing gentle lines on the back of Crowley’s hand with his thumb. “Perhaps there’s something we can do,” Aziraphale said. “There are humans who have a similar issue, I believe.”

“What, not being able to turn into a serpent?” Crowley’s tone was caustic. But he didn’t take his hand from Aziraphale’s, either.

“No, I meant the gender dysphoria, darling.” 

“Ah,” said Crowley. “I suppose.” Finally, finally, he looked up. Crowley’s tousled hair fell in his face, half-hiding his eyes from view. Aziraphale suffered a terrible urge to wrap all six of his wings around Crowley, his spine itching where the wings would normally unfurl. 

“Take a bath with me,” said Aziraphale. “Then we can maybe do something about it. Go shopping? Or whatever you like. Wallowing certainly won’t help.”

Crowley was quiet for a moment. “Don’t think I can do a bath today, or go out,” he said, and his voice had a guarded note to it. “But, ugh, you’re probably right. I could go for a film, maybe.” 

“Of course,” said Aziraphale. His heart rate sped up, already worried that he’d said the wrong thing. Had he been too cavalier? Too insensitive?

“I should probably eat something, as well,” Crowley said. He rubbed distractedly at his face. “Don’t think I’ve had anything to eat since yesterday morning.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, alarmed. Abruptly he realized that the very last thing Crowley needed was to have to worry about reassuring Aziraphale for saying the wrong thing. The poor thing hadn’t even the energy to _eat_. “Right. I’ll call something for delivery, shall I?”

“Yes,” said Crowley. The relief in his voice was immense. It was all Aziraphale needed to confirm setting his worries aside for later was the right decision.

So he did that. He called for some Thai, and then he bundled Crowley onto the couch and put on John Carpenter’s The Thing. (It was one of a number of rather jarring films the demon found comforting. When Aziraphale had asked him why, Crowley had shrugged and said “S’nice to see someone else having a worse day than me.”)

When they’d finished their food and the alien was in the midst of flaying another poor human alive, Aziraphale set his mind to work trying to work out how he could help. He knew that Crowley tended to change his corporation as needed—Nanny Ashtoreth had been one such change, although not a drastic one—and he also knew that Crowley was perfectly capable of buying the clothes he wanted. But the limitations of his current physical form seemed to have laid him low, an effect Aziraphale had not properly appreciated until now. 

He’d do better. Crowley deserved better. He’d already spent enough years hating himself for things not of his choosing; Aziraphale wouldn’t sit by and let him add this one to the pile. Not if he could help it. 

“I can bring you some food in the morning,” he said. “Then I can go with you to pick out some clothes, if you feel up to it—” Aziraphale broke off as Crowley put a hand on his arm. He glanced at his partner.

“Just stay the night, please,” said Crowley. His eyes were fixed on his hand on Aziraphale’s arm.

Aziraphale softened. “Of course, darling,” he said. “Anything you want.” He had not thought the demon would feel up to sharing a bed, but apparently he was wrong. 

They went to bed on their own sides of the mattress, although Crowley did lean in and steal a long, sweet kiss before curling up on his side. But by the morning Aziraphale found himself with a lanky snake demon curled around him, Crowley’s face shoved against his collarbone. 

The morning went better. Crowley seemed slightly more himself, anyway. He allowed Aziraphale to press eggs and toast and tea on him for breakfast as the angel bustled around the kitchen, tidying a week’s worth of messiness. Crowley watched him from the breakfast bar, chin in one hand, fingers of the other curled around his mug of tea. 

“I could go shopping for you, if you don’t feel like going out,” Aziraphale began, but Crowley waved his hand dismissively.

“No way,” said Crowley. “You’d come home with a pile of tartan and skirts that haven’t been in style since Victoria was queen.” Aziraphale thought there was a faint smile at the corner of his mouth despite his tone. 

“My taste isn’t _that_ bad,” Aziraphale said. He huffed for dramatic effect, straightening his vest, and was gladdened to see Crowley snort laughter into his hand. 

“No, it’s all right, I can come out,” said Crowley. “You must think I’m truly bad off to offer to go shopping for me, angel.”

“Well, I’m not the one who’ll be trying things on, my dear,” said Aziraphale lightly. “But there’s very little I wouldn’t do if it would make you happy.”

“Nnghk,” Crowley said, and dropped his face into his hand. It was not quite enough to hide the fact his pale cheeks had just gone rather red. “How can you just—say things like that, s’not _fair_.”

Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed Crowley’s cheek where it peeked out from behind his hand. “Practice makes perfect, you know.”

“Oh, piss off.”

They got themselves together and went out. Crowley came out of his shell enough to pick out a store. (Some of this shopping expedition was a bit unnecessary from a certain standpoint. That was, Aziraphale knew for a fact that Crowley owned a few items of clothing that would suit a more feminine look. But he also strongly suspected the demon needed a day out to lift his spirits, and picking clothes that would make him feel more himself seemed like a good plan.)

The attendant didn’t bat an eyelash at two masculine-seeming people coming in and wanting to look at feminine things, but Aziraphale knew humans could be tetchy on the subject of gender, so he took no chances. He went “full on cheerful bastard,” as Crowley was wont to describe it: charming, confident, and a bit terrifying. 

They picked out a few dozen dresses, skirts, blouses, slinky tops, and other more feminine pieces of clothing and then went to try things on. (The attendant escorted them to a fitting room and stood by, politely and efficiently bringing them whatever clothes they wished and then vanishing immediately.) 

It went well. At least, Aziraphale thought so. Crowley didn’t seem terribly satisfied about how he looked in anything, which was a shame, because he looked incredible. He did flash a smirk when he noticed Aziraphale clutching the tops of his own thighs with the desperation of a man trying not to be swept out to sea. 

“Showing that much leg in a dress should be illegal,” Aziraphale muttered rebelliously. Correction: it should be illegal on Crowley. The average human woman didn’t have bones that remembered being a serpent, or hips that swayed with six thousand years of tempting and seducing. Neither did any other human gender, for that matter. 

“It’s been stylish for at least a century, angel, get with the times.” Crowley turned this way and that before the mirror, admiring the cut.

They took about half the clothes home—or rather, they had the clothes boxed up and sent home, because they had yet more shopping to do. Shoes came next, then makeup, then under garments. (Aziraphale very nearly did not survive that particular shopping expedition. Crowley played it totally cool, examining all of the various options in lace and satin and silk with a critical eye just as if he wasn’t conjuring distracting visions to dance in the angel’s mind. But Aziraphale caught him grinning over the top of a display table and knew he was being played with a little. Well, he could suffer, he supposed, if it lifted Crowley’s spirits.)

Finally, they were done. Aziraphale was getting very hungry indeed, and not for food. As they left the lingerie store, Crowley slowed. 

“Aziraphale,” he began. “Ah, I know it’s been a long day, but…”

Aziraphale was no fool. “Would you like some time to run home and get ready, my dear?” Crowley flushed, but nodded. “Of course. How much time would you like?”

Crowley glanced at his watch. “Do we still have reservations at that French place tonight?”

“We do,” said Aziraphale. The reservations were in two hours; he hadn’t yet cancelled them. “Is that enough time?”

“Should be,” said Crowley. “I’ll meet you there, yeah?” 

“That sounds marvelous, my dear.” 

Crowley hesitated a moment more on the pavement, then leaned in to drop a quick kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek. It was more affection than he’d willingly shown in a week. Aziraphale watched him walk off down the street. He couldn’t be sure—it might just be wishful thinking—but he thought there seemed more of a spring in the demon’s step.

Time for some preparations of his own. First, Aziraphale went home to his own flat for a change of clothes. After that he stopped by the florist, taking his time with selecting a bouquet of carnations, lilies, and roses. He wasn’t really sure if Crowley actually knew anything about the language of flowers, but he thought the demon would appreciate it all the same. 

After that he went directly to the restaurant, getting there a good fifteen minutes early. That gave him enough time to pick out a bottle of champagne to have chilling at the table. The host thoughtfully brought out a vase for the bouquet, which meant Aziraphale had only ten minutes to alternate between perusing the menu and fretting over whether this was putting too much pressure on Crowley to perform.

Motion at the edge of the room made him look up. The host was crossing the floor towards him, leading a vision in black and red satin. Aziraphale’s mouth went dry. For several seconds he was certain Crowley had transcended whatever binding was on them and become his fully demonic self once more—surely there could be no other explanation for how devastatingly gorgeous he was right now. 

Crowley caught him staring, and a wicked smile spread across his face. His face was a vision: wine-red lips, kohl-lined eyes, and other makeup Aziraphale was quite sure was there but was too distracted to catch. His satin dress clung to him, accenting his slim figure while suggesting all sorts of dangerous curves. Crowley approached him with a sway in his hips, putting on a bit of a show. Aziraphale must have made some kind of noise because the demon let out a soft laugh, coming around the table to stand in front of him. 

“I was going to ask what you thought,” Crowley said. His voice was light, but the consideration in his eyes was not. 

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath. “My dear, you are _stunning_.” He put every ounce of the worship in his heart into those words. Reaching out, he took both of Crowley’s hands and squeezed. “Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother to try hiding his smile. “Oh, I suppose.” When Aziraphale stood to pull Crowley’s chair out for him, Crowley even let him, sinking into his seat with sinuous elegance. 

That dinner was one of the most remarkable Aziraphale had ever had with his partner. All dinners with Crowley were wonderful, of course—the demon had been improving Aziraphale’s satisfaction in most things since the literal beginning of time—but somehow tonight was different. 

How lucky he was, to get to love such a complex creature as Crowley. Witnessing Crowley change his presentation today felt like a glimpse into how Crowley moved through the wonderful world they got to live in. The demon was fluid and ever-changing and yet always himself, the magnificent core of him always there in every version of existence he chose to explore. 

And for all that being trapped in mortal form had felt more than once like a prison, tonight Aziraphale discovered a strange thing: that on rare occasions, humans seemed to have the ability to disconnect from linear time. An entire human lifetime passed in that one evening, enough living and joy to span seventy years packed into just a few hours that also served to amplify the centuries that came before. Aziraphale had fallen in love with Crowley dozens of times over their long relationship. Tonight he felt himself experiencing the echoes of all those, as if compressed down into this single wonderful evening.

Nothing existed but him and Crowley. Crowley’s laughter, Crowley’s bright eyes, Crowley’s wicked sense of humor as they traded anecdotes and argued about their friends. Crowley’s warm hand in as they walked home, his shoulder brushing Aziraphale’s. Crowley gasping and trembling beneath him in their bed, mussed hair spread out on the pillow like a fiery halo. Crowley real and breathing and _safe_ in his arms, whispering things to him in the darkness that Aziraphale never thought he’d hear out loud.

And then Crowley—doe-eyed, drowsy from sex and wine—said, “I never thought you’d ever care for me again, angel.”

The confession caught in his mind like a hook in fine cashmere. “Again?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley blinked at him. His gaze slid away, and he curled in on himself a little. Aziraphale brushed his fingers along Crowley’s cheek, gentle and hopefully reassuring. Crowley sighed. “Before,” he said, very quietly. “Before the war, before I Fell—we were close.” He hesitated, then looked right at Aziraphale and said, “I made a nebula for you.” 

Aziraphale stared at him. A shudder went through him—not here on Earth, but in another plane, where his angelic self still manifested. His wings trembled with the knowledge he’d just been granted. After a few moments he realized he was waiting to be struck down by Heaven for allowing that information back into his mind, but absolutely nothing happened. A thrill went through him: they really were free, free from their oldest and biggest barrier. 

“You never said anything,” Aziraphale said, finally.

Crowley gave him a strange, wounded smile. “What could I have said? It would only have hurt you, or put you in danger. If She would even have let me get the words out.”

“Which nebula?” Aziraphale demanded. He felt light-headed, dizzy.

Crowley laughed. He looked like he was experiencing something similar: the shocking weightlessness of profound relief. “Which do you think?”

Aziraphale blinked at him, then laughed. He pulled Crowley in, kissing him hard, and for awhile they did nothing more than that, skin against warm skin, close enough for hearts to beat in time. Finally they rested again, the late hour sinking in as time gently reconnected. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me what my name was?” Crowley said, finally, as Aziraphale was just starting to drift off. The tone of his voice made Aziraphale wake up, leaning up on one elbow to look at Crowley properly.

“I would have thought you couldn’t remember it,” Aziraphale said. Crowley made a face that said clearly that Aziraphale was correct and Crowley was sore about it. “But even if you could, it doesn’t matter. You aren’t that person now, any more than I’m still Raphael. You’re _Crowley._ That’s who I want to spend the rest of my days with.” 

It was Crowley’s turn to stare at him, eyes almost their normal yellow in the dim light of Aziraphale’s bedroom. Then he let out a shaky laugh. “Hell’s teeth, angel, I love you.”

“I love you too, my darling,” said Aziraphale.

* * * * *

Crowley’s discomfort did not magically disappear after that. Aziraphale was expecting this; it would be ludicrous to think otherwise. There were plenty of days where Crowley did not want to be kissed or even touched, much less have any interest in sex. But Aziraphale did his best to be supportive and encouraging, and with some experimentation Crowley seemed to start adjusting. 

Going out and about in London with Crowley dressed as he pleased was the first step. It went reasonably well in Aziraphale’s estimation, although Crowley did slant a sideways look at him and remark, “You don’t need to hover, angel. I promise I’m capable of putting off anyone who messes with me.”

“Sorry, dear,” said Aziraphale, who did not particularly mean it. He privately resolved to head any unfriendlies off at the pass before they ever had a chance to spoil Crowley’s day. But either the wards around them extended to harassment from humans, or else London really was just that right-minded, because no one bothered them. 

(Aziraphale had asked, that first night, if “he” was how Crowley wanted to be referred to. Crowley gave him a smile that was all teeth and made a sharp comment about how human language was insufficient to describe either of them regardless. But he seemed pleased that Aziraphale asked, and the next day he let it be known that he didn’t much care which pronouns Aziraphale used.)

Meeting their humans with Crowley presenting as other than fully masculine was the next step. Crowley affected a cool disinterest that Aziraphale could tell was just a front, but that in itself was a change. There was a time, not that long ago, when Crowley couldn’t have been bothered to care what humans thought of how he looked. That he cared at all now said something.

Bev didn’t bat an eyelash. “That lip looks fantastic on you,” she asked Crowley over tea. “Is it MAC? Rebel?”

“No, Tom Ford, but good eye,” Crowley said. Aziraphale felt his partner settle against the couch cushions, and he smiled into his tea.

When they arrived at Jasmine Cottage to a full house of witch, witchfinder, and children, Aziraphale braced himself for the worst. He didn’t know which would be worse: disapproval, of them not even understanding what they were being told. 

Later, he realized he should have given their humans more credit.

“Why’re you dressed like that?” asked Brian, wiping a bit of mud off his nose and gesturing at Crowley’s heels and blouse. “Are you a woman now?”

“_Brian,_” said Anathema. Newt looked alarmed. He eased carefully off the stool as though in preparation of flinging himself on his girlfriend before she could hex an 11-year-old. 

“Sometimes,” said Crowley. “Sometimes I’m a man. Other times I feel somewhere in between, or like something else altogether.” The children nodded sagely at this. 

“We learnt about that in school recently,” said Pepper matter-of-factly. “It’s, uh.”

“Gender non-compliant,” said Adam. 

“No, trans,” Wensleydale said. “Trans… fluid?”

Crowley laughed and reached for his tea; Aziraphale relaxed ever so slightly. “One of those,” he said. He sounded pleased. Aziraphale permitted himself a small, grateful smile. 

“Leslie in the grade above us is like that,” Brian said, apparently unfazed by any of it. “They always have the best nail polish on, and all their clothes are brilliant.”

“Of course they are,” said Anathema firmly.

* * * *

It wasn’t all lipstick and banter over tea, however. The weeks wore on: the holidays passed into the New Year, snow clogging London’s streets far more heavily this year than it had in almost a decade. They hit six months out from the day they both woke up mortal, and still there was no sign of the binding ending, nor were there any signs of why it had been put on them in the first place. 

There were plenty of days where Crowley was too miserable to even leave bed, much less the flat. On one of those occasions where Crowley was feeling too poorly to accompany him, Aziraphale made the trip to Tadfield by himself. Adam asked him that day whether Crowley was sick, and Aziraphale had to think of how to explain it. He didn’t really want to lie to Adam, who had proven remarkably sensitive and perceptive during their deeper acquaintance. 

“It’s hard,” Aziraphale said after a few moments of thought. “You know, we’ve spent all our lives able to change our appearances if we wish to, and while I’ve generally always looked like this—” Here he gestured at himself. “—Crowley hasn’t. So it’s been difficult for him to be stuck in one form.”

Adam nodded, expression thoughtful. He said nothing more about it that visit. But two weeks later he called Aziraphale about a stray cat that had turned up on his front door, going on about how it needed a home and Dog kept chasing her and did Aziraphale think perhaps Crowley might like to adopt her?

Aziraphale could spot a clear ploy when it rang him up in the form of a plucky 11-year-old, but he went along with it anyway. The cat turned out to be a black and white ball of fluff with clear blue eyes that purred like a car engine the moment Aziraphale picked her up. When he brought her over to Crowley’s flat, Crowley’s immediate stream of protests was cut off by the cat—kitten, really—attempting to scramble up into his lap before falling off the couch arm instead.

“Stupid thing,” Crowley muttered. He bent down, gathering the fluff ball up into his arms. She immediately started purring again. “Ugh.”

He named her Lillith. He complained endlessly about her tendency to shed all over his black clothes and her repeated attempts to sleep directly on his face. But barely a week later Aziraphale found him napping with her in the winter sun, and decided that perhaps Adam had had the right idea after all.

* * * * *

All in all, Aziraphale was content. More than content, he was _happy_—their lives had their challenges, but for the first time in thousands of years he felt safe. He hadn’t yet given up on researching how they might remove the binding, but it wasn’t taking up the bulk of his time anymore, either. Instead, there was a great deal else.

There was their humans, for a start. The Them invited them to all sorts of events like plays and recitals and even birthday parties. The children also asked for advice on everything from how to curse their enemies (“No cursing,” Aziraphale said sternly, while Crowley muttered about missing his calling) to how to deal with family problems and school reports.

Pepper’s wayward father made another attempt to get her to let him into her life. This time he showed up at the gate to her school, flowers in one hand, tickets to a film in the other. Pepper saw him from the front doors of the school building and fled on foot all the way to Adam’s house, since it was the closest. Adam had the good sense to just let her hide in the garden as she asked instead of demanding answers. But when she’d refused to let him phone either her mum or Anathema, he’d called Aziraphale, who immediately came to get her. 

Pepper spent the rest of the afternoon crying about it on Crowley’s couch while Lillith crawled all over her purring insistently. Crowley made dinner, Aziraphale made dessert, and when Pepper’s mother came to pick her up at the end of the day, she was considerably calmer and more her usual determined self. 

(Aziraphale never found out what happened to Pepper’s dad that day. Certainly Pepper didn’t know. But he didn’t come calling again, as Aziraphale rather expected him to, and he found himself wondering if a certain young man had taken it upon himself to set up a ward. For a boy who was supposed to be more or less human now, unusual coincidences still followed Adam around like his Dog.)

There was Newt and Anathema, who now insisted on twice-monthly visits. Anathema came up to London to see them sometimes, also, always whisking Aziraphale off to a rare bookshop or some University presentation. She even confided in Aziraphale that she was considering enrolling in a PhD program in history. Aziraphale was so delighted by the idea that he immediately offered to be a reference on any of her applications. 

“What are you going to say about me?” she asked. Her nose crinkled delightfully when she was amused. “That I am very good at interpreting cryptic prophecies?”

“Oh, I think we can do a bit better than _that_, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “I know a few people in the academic history community from my time dealing rare books.”

“Well then,” said Anathema. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Meanwhile, Newt began spending regular time with Crowley, which Aziraphale was pleased and puzzled by in equal measure. Crowley had spent enough time commenting on Newt’s shortcomings in Aziraphale’s hearing that the turnaround was notable. 

“What on Earth do you two do together?” Aziraphale asked him one day. 

Crowley abruptly became very focused on scratching Lillith’s fuzzy head. “He likes cars,” he said at last, sounding either defensive or embarrassed. “And films.” 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, and went to go hide his pleasure in making them both more tea. 

The work they did with Bev, too, was more and more welcome. It wasn’t quite what they were used to, but Aziraphale found he rather liked it. Now he could do the kind of helping that he liked best: giving humans the encouragement and support to help themselves and their fellow man. He no longer had to worry about following a higher purpose, about meeting the expectations of Upstairs, about what would happen if he was found out for the fraudulent angel he was. In fact, he’d been taken out of the game completely. It was remarkably freeing.

He thought Crowley was happier, too, although the demon would scowl and look away if Aziraphale mentioned it. But he knew that Crowley liked to help in his own way, even if that way usually involved vexing or double-crossing some particularly loathsome human. (And there were plenty of cruel and petty humans to vex.) Aziraphale knew that Crowley still missed being able to curse, charm, and otherwise bedevil people when needed, just as Aziraphale missed being able to do miracles, but on the whole the work was satisfying. 

But it wasn’t just the work, really. It was the fact that they could work _together_ without fear. Because the best thing in Aziraphale’s life was, of course, Crowley. 

There were so many things to share: breakfasts and lunch and dinner, love-making on every surface they could find, museums and shows and evenings spent arguing over a bottle or two of wine. It was in many ways much the same as what they’d shared over their six thousand years stationed on Earth. But no longer having to worry about appearances, about someone looking over their shoulders, made everything that much better. 

They still watched the ducks in St. James’ Park. But now they also made dinner together, and went to sleep in the same bed, curled around each other. Aziraphale thought he would never get tired of being able to bring Crowley gifts with no pretense. Crowley always went a little wide-eyed—sometimes he hid it behind his glasses, but he could never hide the way his mouth softened just a little when Aziraphale brought him flowers or music or wine, just because. He would never tire of Crowley doing the same for him, either. Crowley still hunted down rare books and fine clothes and delicious food for Aziraphale like it was his mission in life, and Aziraphale reveled in it every single time.

It was the _choice_ that was new: the opportunity to choose Crowley over and over, and the joy of Crowley choosing him—that would never get old. Aziraphale thought that being made mortal was worth it, if he got to make this choice every day for however long they had left.

When Crowley invited Aziraphale to take a week off with him to southern France along the French Riviera, Aziraphale was of course delighted. But he didn’t think much of it, either. He was happy that Crowley was inviting him on romantic trips, of course, but it wasn’t that different from their usual, even their more recent usual. He suspected nothing.

When Crowley led him down to a stretch of deserted beach near Provence for a late afternoon picnic spread out on a blanket, he still suspected nothing. It seemed a lovely way to spend a few hours, that was all.

He certainly wasn’t expecting Crowley to produce a small black box and present it to him with a flourish. He wasn’t expecting Crowley’s hands to tremble as he opened the box and held out a ring—gold, in the shape of a winding serpent holding a brilliant ruby in its open mouth. He wasn’t expecting the catch in Crowley’s voice as he asked the question, or the glassiness in the demon’s eyes as he stared at Aziraphale with the most astonishing vulnerability in his face. 

“I wasn’t sure,” Crowley said shakily. “I mean, it’s not—that is—what humans do, it isn’t the same, I know, but—” He took a deep breath. “But if this is all we get, Aziraphale, then I want to call you mine.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale choked out. “My darling, I—yes, yes, _yes_.”

They kissed, and it was perfect. Crowley nearly lost the ring in the sand while trying to slide it on Aziraphale’s finger, and that was also perfect. And if the thought crossed Aziraphale’s mind that he could not possibly ask for more, well, it was only human to be wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to being done now! Soon all the remaining questions will be answered. I hope to have this finished & posted by the end of the year. ♥


	11. make them gold: 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley share the news of their engagement with friends, discover some intriguing news, and then have an unexpected run-in. (Enter Warlock Dowling.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this chapter! Just one more left after this to wrap everything up and answer all your questions! Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your year! Happy holidays! ♥

They kept their engagement to themselves, if only for a little while. 

Anathema was the first to realize. It took her a whole hour on one of her and Aziraphale’s regular university-and-book dates, and she gasped loudly enough to make several heads turn in the bookstore cafe. “When?” she demanded. 

Aziraphale laughed. “When is the wedding, or when did it happen?”

“Both!” Anathema clasped her hands together, eyes girlishly wide. It was so unlike her usual serious demeanor that Aziraphale could not contain a little frisson of delight. 

“He proposed while we were in France two weeks ago, and, ah, we haven’t actually picked a date yet. But you will know as soon as we have,” Aziraphale added, as Anathema threatened to erupt at the table like a pull-tab of confetti. “It’ll be sometime this summer, I expect. Probably just a few people.”

Anathema’s face fell a little. “Really? You don’t think anyone from, ah, back home would come?”

Aziraphale smiled. It was only a little painful. “Oh, I should hope not. If they did, there’d probably be an awful lot of fire and brimstone and holy smiting. Would really spoil the reception.”

Anathema bit her lip. She snaked a hand across the table, taking Aziraphale’s and squeezing. “Their loss,” she said fiercely. Aziraphale smiled at her, blinking a few times to banish the mysterious wetness from his eyes. 

News of their engagement spread like wildfire from there. Bev sent over a bottle of Moet and a very classy card. Inside, she wrote “tell me if you need someone to help organize things,” as if Aziraphale hadn’t already been planning to beg her to do just that. 

It wasn’t that he and Crowley weren’t capable of organizing things themselves. Organization and planning were two of the things Aziraphale was best at, really. But the thought of not having to do it alone was so very nice—after all, the whole point of having a public ceremony was to involve other people. Otherwise they might as well just exchange rings and be done with it.

And Aziraphale found he very much wanted to invite their humans. This in and of itself was new; he and Crowley had always appreciated humans, looked after them, rooted for them, but from afar. Being up close and personal with enough humans to want to have them present for something like a _wedding_ was an entirely new experience. 

Luckily, Crowley seemed amenable. Aziraphale had worried that Crowley might prefer privacy, but when Aziraphale broached the topic, Crowley just shrugged. “Really, we can’t get married and not invite anyone,” he said, sounding far calmer than Aziraphale had expected. “There’s no bloody point in having a ceremony if there’s no one there to get wankered on fancy champagne and dance like idiots with us.”

Aziraphale felt himself break into a grin. “Are you going to dance with me at our wedding, then?”

Crowley’s cheeks flamed red as his hair. “If I’m ever going to bloody dance, it’d be a wedding, wouldn’t it!” Aziraphale must have gotten a particular gleam in his eye, because Crowley immediately added, “And it’s not going to be a _gavotte_, angel. No one does that anymore.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale said indignantly. “It’s our wedding, why shouldn’t we dance the way we want to?”

“Because if we’re learning any special dances, it’ll be just you and me dancing, not you prancing around with the Them!”

This mental image was so alarming that Aziraphale nearly choked on his tea. Crowley smirked at him unrepentantly from across the table until Aziraphale stood up to take matters into his own hands. There were better things for that wicked mouth to be occupied with.

They settled on a weekend in late July, mainly because that was when Bev was able to secure a venue. “It had better not be a fucking church,” Crowley said darkly.

“Syon Park, apparently,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley blinked. He peered at Aziraphale over the tops of his sunglasses. “How on Earth did she manage to get it reserved?” he demanded. “Everything in London books out at least a year and a half!”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” said Aziraphale. “I would have said it was a miracle, but, well.”

Crowley smirked. Then his expression went thoughtful. “D’you ever think maybe Bev…? That she isn’t, well.” He gestured vaguely. 

“Well, she’s not an angel, and she’s not a demon,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure we would’ve been able to tell.”

“She’s not a witch, either,” Crowley said. He frowned and crossed one long leg over the other, staring moodily at the wall. “There’s just—something about her, sometimes. She has this—” He broke off, looking embarrassed. 

Aziraphale, however, went on alert. “No, go on,” he said. “I’ve seen it too. There’s this sense about her…”

“Yes!” Crowley snapped his fingers. “I swear I’ve seen her glow a few times.”

“Oh, you’ve seen it also,” said Aziraphale. He was unsure whether to be relieved or worried. 

Crowley nodded. “And she has this smell. I dunno how to describe it, but I’ve come across it before. I just can’t quite remember what it is.”

Aziraphale considered this. The strange glow was one thing, but the smell—even now, Crowley retained a keen sense of smell. He’d always been better at identifying scents than Aziraphale, and there was no reason to doubt him now. “Do you think she’s dangerous?” he asked at last. He very much did not want to even broach the question, but they still had no answer as to why they were bound in mortal form. 

Crowley shook his head. “I think she’s more than she appears, but if she really meant us ill, I don’t think she’d wait until we were planning our wedding to do it.” 

Aziraphale found he had no good argument against this. And really, he didn’t want one. Whatever else Bev was, she’d become a dear friend in a short span of time, and Aziraphale had no wish to ruin that.

But neither could he put it out of his mind. So a short while after that conversation, he did some digging into Beverly Rosenberg. He found very little, but what he did find was disquieting.

Online there was nothing at all. Neither did public records produce anything of substance. But Aziraphale—who after all had been doing research since long before the internet and modern publishing—finally had some luck in one of the archives attached to Oxford University. There he found a birth announcement for one Beverly Elizabeth Rosenberg, child of Charles Rosenberg and Anna Klein-Rosenberg. 

There was just one wrinkle. The birth announcement was from 1867. 

A bit more digging in the same archive eventually unearthed several daguerreotypes of the Rosenbergs, who had apparently been a well-to-do family living in London’s Hyde Park neighborhood during the middle Victorian years. In three of the photos was a young black girl in a number of party dresses, beaming confidently at the camera.

Aziraphale knew that smile. He’d seen it many times. But he had no Earthly explanation for how a modern human could live to be over 150 years old, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to confront Bev about it without more proof. 

So he didn’t. Instead, they planned a wedding. There was a lot to do, and only six short months to do it in. There were flower arrangements and bouquets to plan (Crowley’s department), hors d’oeuvres and dinner and cake to pick out (Aziraphale’s domain) and a ceremony and reception and invitations to manage (Bev’s area of expertise). Bev heckled them good-naturedly into making a gift registry, despite their protests. They did still list donating to a number of charities as their preferred gifts.

(Saints, the ceremony. Aziraphale and Crowley went round and round on that, unable to decide what tradition—if any—they wanted to include. Was there anything at all in the world that might encompass everything they’d been through, everything they were?)

This was on top of all their normal activities, of course: the Them did not stop having pre-teen probems just because Aziraphale and Crowley had finally decided to act on all the feelings they’d kept pent up for so long. Newt dragged Crowley to a number of film festivals and the London Classic Car Show. Anathema had signed up for spring courses at King’s College. Thus far she didn’t seem interested in giving up Jasmine Cottage despite the amount of commuting that entailed, but at least she only needed to be in London two days a week. 

“Online courses exist, Aziraphale,” she said when Aziraphale asked how she was managing it. 

They did end up needing a better car than the Reliant Robin, especially when Newt’s poor car gave up the ghost. That was another weekend unto itself, the two of them car-shopping with Newt and Anathema. Despite Crowley’s ardent championing of the Aston Martin DB5, the car they ended up taking home was a BMW i3: a hybrid electric car shaped not unlike the dearly departed Dick Turpin. They dubbed it Dick Turpin III for some humorous reason that eluded Aziraphale, and even Crowley declared the car acceptable—”for a modern car, anyway.” 

But it was Bev Aziraphale found himself paying closer attention to than before. Now that Crowley had voiced the same observation Aziraphale had been suppressing, how could he not? And what he noticed was interesting.

He saw how she always seemed to know what people needed, even when they didn’t know it themselves. He saw the gift she had for helping people, and for encouraging people to help themselves. And he saw, now and again, that she did in fact glow: a faint halo of light around her like a shaded lamp. He could only ever glimpse it for a moment, but the impression of it lingered like the warmth from a hot drink or a hug from a close friend. 

But he noticed little things, too. These were less interesting and more distressing: how Bev didn’t seem to eat much when they went out anymore; how she seemed a bit thinner, less vital. She took to wearing more scarves around her head and hosting fewer dinner parties. But whenever they were together, she was still the wickedly smart, vivacious woman she’d been since the moment she’d invited herself into their lives. The one time Aziraphale ventured to ask about her health, she dismissed it out of hand.

“I’m fine,” she said, and smiled at him, eyes sparkling. “Stop fussing over me, you have a wedding to plan.” 

It was nothing, Aziraphale told himself. Just a hard winter. When the warm weather came back, so too would Bev’s energy. It would be fine.

* * * * *

There was one wrinkle during those months leading up to the second most fateful summer of their lives. 

Aziraphale and Crowley had brought the Them on another museum day trip in late March. The first one back in December had gone swimmingly—that one had been to the Natural History Museum. (There had been a few good minutes where Aziraphale was _certain_ Adam was going to bring all the taxidermied animals to life, but in the end Pepper distracted him before he could summon up some of his apparently not-so-defunct powers.) Now the children were chattering excitedly to themselves as they wandered through Ancient Assyria and Persia. 

“My mum says that the British Museum got all of its artifacts by stealing them from other countries via imperialist conquest,” said Pepper, loudly. One of the museum workers gave her a sour look that she either did not notice or ignored completely. “They really ought to do the proper thing and give them back.”

“But if they gave ‘em back then we couldn’t see ‘em anymore,” said Brian. He reached out a grubby hand, preparing to run it along a mammoth stone fist the size of a sedan. Aziraphale winced, but Wensleydale yanked his friend back before he could add a brand-new layer of grime on the ancient relic. 

“The sign says ‘no touching,’” Wensleydale said importantly.

“That’s no fun,” said Adam, sounding disappointed. “I wanted to touch a mummy!”

“If you touched it, it would fall apart,” said Pepper witheringly.

“No it wouldn’t,” said Adam. “Might wake up, though. Be all dusty and shriveled up. That’d be brilliant.”

Aziraphale smiled and glanced over to see how Crowley was doing. Crowley had a love-hate relationship with the British Museum, as he did with a great many things. Most of the time he sided with Pepper and Pepper’s mother on the topic, but like Aziraphale, he also had some personal history with more than one of the artifacts on display. It hadn’t stopped either of them from meeting here over the years leading up to Armageddon, but taking children here was a bit different, somehow. 

There was no conflict today, though. Right now Crowley was leaning against the wall, watching a few tourists take photos of themselves in front of a massive stone bust of some ancient Persian king. The demon was dressed in a magnificent black dress with a scandalously low back, across which stretched several lengths of gold chain in a sort of ladder. The dress was slit up one side, all the way to the upper thigh. Crowley topped the ensemble off with gold earrings and bracelets and elegant black pumps. 

Aziraphale paused to admire how gorgeous his partner looked—his _fiance_, he reminded himself with glee. He opened his mouth to ask Crowley how he was enjoying himself when an all-too-familiar voice shattered the afternoon calm.

“Nanny!” shouted a boy’s voice from across the room. “Nanny Ashtoreth! Is that you?”

Aziraphale’s heart lodged itself in his throat. He turned around to see a whip-thin boy running full-tilt across the vast display hall, shaggy hair flying. Crowley turned around in time for Aziraphale to see how wide his eyes had gone in his pale face, and then Warlock was on him.

“Darling,” Crowley said. His voice was rough with shock. “Warlock, dear boy—”

“It _is_ you!” Warlock said excitedly. “Oh, but you look different. You’re—” He paused, head cocked, assessing Crowley’s slim frame and distinctly flat chest. Crowley went a yet paler shade of white. “I never saw you wear a dress like that before,” Warlock said, thoughtful. “Did you quit to become a model?”

Aziraphale’s heart stammered, then re-started. He saw that Crowley was literally speechless—in fact looked just inches from something heinously embarrassing, like fainting or bursting into tears. “Miss Ashtoreth quit because I asked her to come away with me,” Aziraphale cut in. “Hello, Warlock. It’s lovely to run into you like this.” 

He was walking over before he’d properly registered that his own appearance was a great deal more different than Crowley’s was now. Warlock turned at the sound of his voice, though, and at the sight of him his eyes went wide. “Brother Francis?” he demanded. “Wow, you lost a _lot_ of weight!”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale intelligently. “Yes. That is—”

“And you fixed your teeth,” said Warlock. “And got rid of your whiskers. Wow.”

Crowley finally rallied enough to find his voice “When did you come back to London?” he asked. “I thought you went back to America.”

“We did, for awhile,” said Warlock. “But Mom and Dad are fighting. They say they’re just ‘taking a break,’ but Dad hasn’t been the same since that day we went out to the desert and everything went nuts. Mom wanted to come back to England for Christmas, and we’ve been here since then.”

Aziraphale’s stomach lurched painfully. It hit him, suddenly, how impossibly lucky it was that the Dowlings survived that day in Megiddo at all. From the stricken look on Crowley’s face, the demon was thinking something along the same lines.

And what’s more, neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had been there for him. True, they’d been rather occupied with the whole business of keeping themselves in one piece, not to mention trying to stop Armageddon. But the fact remained that they’d let a boy they watched over for six years together like he was their own walk into a death trap of demons. 

“Who are you talking to?” asked another voice from behind them. Aziraphale looked over and saw Adam had noticed Warlock’s arrival. Oh, this was going to get awkward. 

Naturally, Crowley was the first one to react. “Adam, this is Warlock Dowling,” he said. “Warlock, this is Adam Young. Aziraphale and I spent six years working for the Dowlings, taking care of Warlock.”

“Why would you do that?” Pepper asked curiously, as she came up. Meanwhile, Adam’s eyes went suddenly wide. 

“What did you call Brother Francis?” Warlock was looking back at Adam and Pepper with obvious mistrust. “Is this the person you went to nanny for after you left us?”

“That’s the kind of conversation we ought to have somewhere more private so I don’t sound completely mad,” Crowley said. He smiled, showing an awful lot of his teeth for someone ostensibly human.

“Warlock,” said Aziraphale. The boy turned towards him again. “Here, take my card. This is the address of my bookshop.” He dug out a pen and wrote out his mobile number on the back of the card, then added Crowley’s for good measure. “We’d love to catch up with you and your family when you get some time. We can explain things better then, too.”

He didn’t want to have this conversation in front of Adam or the rest of the Them, who had followed their leader over to where Adam was watching this exchange with avid attention. He just hoped they could postpone it for now. Aziraphale didn’t think they were going to get out of explaining this to Adam, either, but now was not the time or place for this particular conversation.

Warlock hesitated, staring at the card but not taking it. The look on his face was harder than Aziraphale had expected, but then, the boy must have had a rough eight months. They weren’t the only ones who’d been through a lot.

Crowley crouched, setting his hands on Warlock’s shoulders. “We shouldn’t have just left you like that,” he said. His voice was low, intense. “But I think you know that it’s a big story and we should have a proper sit-down to talk about it. Do you still trust me enough to let me ask that?”

Warlock looked at Crowley for a few moments. He took a deep breath. But he never got a chance to say whatever it was he was working up to, because that was when a woman’s voice started calling Warlock’s name from across the gallery. “Warlock! Where did you go?”

“I have to go,” said Warlock. He looked from Crowley to Adam and then finally to Aziraphale. He hesitated, then snatched the card Aziraphale was still holding out and ran off, back in the direction of his mother’s voice. 

“Who’s Brother Francis?” asked Brian, after Warlock ran off. 

Aziraphale let out a sigh. “It’s a bit of a long story,” he said. He glanced over at Crowley, but the demon had retreated back into himself. His expression was the mask of casual disinterest Aziraphale had grown so familiar with over the passing centuries. “It has to do with what happened last summer.”

He ended up relating the gist of things to the Them in the cab. Aziraphale made sure to keep things vague, trying to sell the story as though they spent those years watching over Warlock because of Armageddon-related orders from their superiors, which was mostly true. Crowley kept quiet the whole drive, staring out at the traffic, face set and eyes hidden. 

Adam kept quiet in the car, too. Aziraphale found this rather worrying. The boy lingered on the pavement by their car as his friends got out and piled into a nearby sandwich shop. “That boy was the one you _thought_ was me,” he said. “That’s why you spent all that time watching over him while he grew up, isn’t it.”

Aziraphale exchanged a glance with Crowley, who grimaced. “Yes,” said the demon. 

“I didn’t know what he looked like till now,” Adam said. “I just made sure he got out safe, when I fixed everything. Seems only fair, since I think I wound up with his parents.”

Aziraphale needed a few moments to process this pair of shocks back-to-back. Crowley was making incoherent noises, sounding not unlike the car’s engine did on cold mornings when it didn’t want to start. “Adam,” Crowley got out, finally. “I’m—”

“_Don’t_ say you’re sorry,” Adam said fiercely. “I’m not. They’re my parents, and they always have been.” He let out a breath, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his coat. “Besides, it’s really just lucky you two are so rubbish at your jobs, or else I might not have met the Them, and then things really would have been bad.”

Aziraphale let out a startled laugh. “Indeed,” he said. Crowley stood by, visibly flummoxed.

They might have said more, but Pepper re-appeared at the door of the sandwich shop. “Adam! What’s taking so long? We’re ordering dinner!”

“Gotta go,” Adam said. He flashed a smile at them that was three measures too irresistible, then turned and headed inside to join his friends.

Aziraphale stared after him. “Well,” he said. “I suppose that could have gone worse.”

“Nghk,” said Crowley.

* * * * *

A week passed, and they did not hear from Warlock. Crowley’s mood turned dark and stayed that way. Aziraphale certainly couldn’t blame him, but as the only thing they could really do was wait, he chose to focus on other things, like the courses for their reception. They went round and round on what to tell Warlock when (if) he did reach out, but much like their wedding ceremony, they couldn’t seem to come to a consensus.

“Warlock could have died,” Crowley said flatly. He paced back and forth, back and forth, wearing thin spots on the carpet in Aziraphale’s tiny living room. “I guaran-fucking-tee Hastur would have killed him and his parents, if Adam hadn’t just twisted reality to save him. We fucked up his life and he deserves to know why he’s been jerked around.” 

“I don’t disagree that the boy has been through trouble, but do you really think the truth would give him any comfort?” Aziraphale wrung his hands, watching his fiance’s agitated circling. “And do you think he’s even going to believe us? We can’t exactly do anything miraculous at the moment to prove what we tell him. What if he just thinks we’re lying to him and it makes things worse?”

“We can’t just hold him at arm’s length! Didn’t you hear him? His parents are fucking separated—”

“Honestly his father was always rubbish anyway,” Aziraphale said absently.

“That’s not the point, angel! First we abandon him, now his father stops even pretending to care and just fucks off out of his life. We aren’t staving off bloody Armageddon anymore, alright?” Crowley stopped pacing, turning to glare at Aziraphale with such venom that Aziraphale almost took a step back. “How is it that I’m the one trying to persuade a bloody Angel of the Lord to do the right thing?”

Aziraphale winced. “I just don’t know that telling Warlock that the only reason we signed up to take care of him was because we believed he was the actual Antichrist qualifies as ‘the right thing,’” he said, very softly. “I don’t want to hurt him any more than you do.”

Crowley must have seen the hurt in his face, because he was at Aziraphale’s side moments later. “Aziraphale,” he said and sighed. Aziraphale stared at his lap. A moment later he saw Crowley’s hand creep into view, cautiously trying to lace his fingers with Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale thought about pulling away, but he let Crowley take his hand and found he felt a bit better anyway.

“I don’t know what the right thing is,” Crowley said, after a moment. He sounded defeated. “But lying to him and keeping him at a distance feels wrong. He’s just a kid.” 

It was Aziraphale’s turn to sigh. “Alright, my darling,” he said. “If you really feel that strongly.”

Crowley said nothing. But he brought Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles gently enough to make Aziraphale’s eyes burn.

* * * * *

Eight days after running into their one-time charge at the British Museum, Aziraphale got a text from an unknown number. _Will you be at the bookshop this afternoon?_ it said.

Aziraphale spent only a moment debating what to send back before replying _Of course, dear boy. I’ll tell Nanny to be here too._ (If the sender was someone other than Warlock, they would be very confused, but then no one else but Warlock had any business sending mysterious text messages to Aziraphale’s mobile.) 

He messaged Crowley straightaway to tell him that Warlock (presumably) had reached out. The demon was at the bookshop not twenty minutes later. Aziraphale could hardly fail to notice that Crowley was in an outfit reminiscent of what he used to wear as Ashtoreth: old-fashioned tight-fitting skirt and blouse, black hose, black Victorian button-up boots with kitten heels. Briefly, Aziraphale considered changing as well, then discarded the idea as worthless. Even if he’d been able to transform his appearance, Warlock had already seen him as other than Brother Francis—and unlike Crowley’s Ashtoreth, the friar was definitely a charade for Aziraphale.

They got no more reply by text, but around two pm the door swung open. In came Warlock—not with his mother, as Aziraphale had half-expected, but by himself and wearing a furtive look. He glanced around, carefully closing the door behind him. Once again Aziraphale found himself thinking that the boy seemed different than he had the last time they’d seen him, before Armageddon. 

“Hello, Warlock,” said Aziraphale. He summoned a bright smile he didn’t quite feel as Crowley stood up from the chair he’d been sulking in. “I’m so glad you came.”

Warlock stood in the middle of the room, hands awkwardly at his sides. “Hallo, Brother Francis, Nanny,” he said. He hesitated. “Those aren’t your real names, are they?”

“Not exactly,” said Crowley. His voice sounded strange. He and Warlock stared at each other for long enough that Aziraphale decided he’d better take matters into his own hands. 

He cleared his throat; Warlock and Crowley both glanced over. “I think we’d better have some tea and cake,” Aziraphale said, and gestured towards the back room. “And then have a chat.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and led the way. Crowley followed, and then thankfully so did Warlock. 

They ended up telling him almost everything over large amounts of tea and Bakewell tart. The truth, as Crowley had wanted, instead of the edited version of things Aziraphale had suggested. Warlock didn’t ask nearly as many questions as Aziraphale was expecting—he was rather subdued, in fact. He didn’t really react to hearing that Ashtoreth was actually a demon named Crowley and that Brother Francis was actually an angel named Aziraphale, or that they’d been watching over him after mistakenly thinking he was the Antichrist. 

Finally, their story was over. Silence unspooled in the little make-do kitchen. Warlock stared at the half-finished slice of tart in front of him. He shook his head and looked up at them. “Did that other boy fix everything, then?” he asked.

“Adam put things back to rights, yes,” said Crowley. 

“But everything went wrong for a little while, first,” Warlock pressed. “Right?”

Something about this line of questioning rang an unpleasant bell for Aziraphale. Evidently, Crowley felt it too, because he leaned forward and said, in a very strange voice, “Warlock?”

Warlock chewed on his lower lip. “That demon with scabs on his face, out in the desert,” he said. “He—he set everything on fire. Everyone was screaming. That’s the last thing I remember, until all of a sudden we were back in the desert and he was gone and we went on some boring tour of local ruins instead.” 

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped, right past his feet and through the floor. Crowley made a rough noise and put his hand over his mouth. “No one remembered any of it but me,” Warlock said. “My mom thought I was making up nasty stories. But it really happened. Didn’t it?”

Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley was able to respond for several moments. But the distant look on Warlock’s face was too awful to deny, and so Aziraphale rallied himself and leaned forward too. “It did,” he said. “Adam—rewound it, made it so it never really happened. But a few of us do remember how things went before he fixed it all.” 

Warlock nodded, expression very serious. “So I was just a mistake, then.”

“_No,_” Crowley said. Warlock looked at him. “We were the ones who made a mistake, Warlock. But you weren’t it. You were always fine.”

“So why didn’t you come back?” Warlock didn’t sound nearly as accusatory as Aziraphale would have expected him to. Somehow, that made it worse. 

“We didn’t know what to do with ourselves, honestly,” said Aziraphale. He made a split-second decision to be as vulnerable with the boy as Crowley had intended, to not hold back. “Our—our superiors were terribly unhappy with us for interfering with their plan. They tried to have us killed.”

Warlock’s eyes widened a little at that. “Did they make you human then, too? Or was that the other boy?”

Crowley made a face. “We don’t know,” he said, and Aziraphale spread his hands by way of agreement. “But when we tried to find you, you’d gone back to America, and since we’ve been mortal since the end of last summer there wasn’t really any way for us to get ahold of you.” 

Warlock looked thoughtful at this. For a few moments, none of them said anything. Then Warlock said, tentatively, “I think we’re staying in London, at least for awhile. Mom likes it here.” Oh, he was too serious; what happened to the little monster Aziraphale used to watch over? But he knew the answer to that already.

“Well, we’re in London these days as well,” he said, trying to sound serene. 

“I might drop in on your mother,” Crowley said. He kept his voice neutral, watching Warlock carefully for his reaction. “Let her know I’ve been through some …changes, mention my new boyfriend.”

Warlock nodded. “She’d like that,” he said. “She’s lonely.” He was looking at Crowley as he said this, almost nervous, as though he were admitting something very different.

Aziraphale’s heart ached. “Perhaps the two of you might come over for dinner sometime soon,” he said—or started to. But Crowley leaned forward, opening his arms, and after a split-second of hesitation Warlock pushed out of his chair and threw himself at Crowley. Crowley folded himself around the boy, a rough noise escaping.

For several seconds Aziraphale found that his eyes stung quite horribly. He busied himself with his tea cup with shaky hands. After a moment the other two broke away, Warlock wiping at his face. 

“Dinner sounds nice,” he said.

“I’m glad,” said Aziraphale, and he meant it.

* * * * *

They did that. Harriet Dowling was both surprised and deeply gratified when The Nanny Formerly Known As Ashtoreth dropped in on their much more modest flat a blustery afternoon a few days later. She took to Crowley like a duck to water, though, and was just as happy to be “introduced” to Aziraphale.

“You know, you remind me of someone Ashto—Crowley used to work with,” she said, the second time they came by to take her and Warlock out for the day. “Our gardener, Francis. I think you’d have liked him.”

“Is that so,” said Aziraphale. “Perhaps Crowley has a type.” Belatedly he realized his mistake—Ashtoreth and Francis had most definitely not been dating—but Harriet didn’t seem to notice. 

Crowley snorted into his coffee. “If I have a type, Francis wasn’t it,” he said, and Harriet laughed. 

When Adam heard they’d reconnected with Warlock, he immediately asked to meet. Aziraphale couldn’t help but be worried by this prospect, but Warlock agreed and there was no particular reason not to, so they arranged it. Warlock and the Them did not exactly get on like a house on fire, but once Warlock mentioned his run-in with Hastur, they immediately found common ground and got knee-deep in discussing the various agents of Heaven and Hell.

“You actually saw the Horsemen?” Warlock demanded, as they cut through Hyde Park en route to a bakery on the other side that was famous for its delicious scones and animal-shaped biscuits. 

“Horse _People_,” said Pepper. “And yes, they were revolting. And spooky. But we got rid of them all right.”

“We had a flaming sword,” Brian said importantly. “It flamed like anything.”

“Actually, I wonder what happened to it?” said Wensleydale. “A flaming sword’s not the sort of thing you just lose, is it?” 

“Rude,” murmured Aziraphale, and tried not to notice the way Crowley was smirking at him. The two of them followed the children at a more sedate pace, Aziraphale sipping at the chai Crowley had bought him from the vendor near the edge of the park. The children were already done with their hot cocoas, although at least a third of Brian’s had ended up on his face and shirt somehow. 

“I think I’ve seen the demon you mentioned,” Adam said. “His hair looks like straw, yeah? He really does smell like poo.”

“Wait, _what,_” said Crowley. “You’ve seen Hastur? When?”

Adam shrugged. “He’s been around once or twice since last year, I guess,” he said, sounding far less concerned than Aziraphale thought was warranted. “Seen that one with the flies, too. And that smirky man with the grey coat. Is he really actually an angel?”

Aziraphale’s throat had gone dry. He and Crowley exchanged a look; Crowley looked as alarmed as Aziraphale felt. “They haven’t tried anything, have they?” Crowley asked after a moment.

“Nah,” said Adam dismissively. “Think they’re scared. I don’t think they can mess with us, though, so don’t worry.”

_You don’t know that,_ Aziraphale thought but did not say. He didn’t want to worry the children. He’d have to check in with Anathema, see if there were any wards that could be put up around the Them—although, knowing Adam, perhaps Tadfield was still warded. Aziraphale could only hope. From Crowley’s dark glower, the demon was thinking much the same thing.

It was not the first time Aziraphale had felt the absence of his celestial powers this keenly. But with how pleasant their lives had been the past few months—between the silence from both sides and the deeper relationship he was enjoying with Crowley—it was the first time in a little while he’d felt scared. 

He didn’t care for it.


	12. make them gold: 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley get married, while Bev's health gets worse. Then the angel and the demon finally find out who actually made them mortal--and why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the last chapter! In case you missed the altered tags, please note: **there is minor character death in this chapter.** I will also add, as a caveat for anyone who is worried, that this story does have a happy ending, but I did want you all to be prepared.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and for your patience as this got finished over the holidays! I've been DYING to share this chapter with you all more or less since I started the fic, and I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

“Can I ask you a question?” said Newt, one morning some four months before the wedding day. 

“Of course,” said Aziraphale. He leaned over, reaching for one of the scones Newt had bought from the bakery down the road from Jasmine Cottage. They were delicious, buttery and savoury with a good crumb. Aziraphale strongly suspected that the woman who ran the bakery might have a blessed ancestor somewhere in her family tree. 

“I hope it isn’t rude to ask,” Newt said, “but… isn’t it a little strange that you’re having a human wedding ceremony? I mean.” He gestured vaguely with the hand not holding a mug of tea. “It just seems like something neither of you would really care much about.”

Aziraphale considered this a moment as he spread clotted cream and jam on his scone. He could tell his silence was making Newt nervous, but a serious question deserved a serious answer, and Aziraphale needed a moment to consider what that was. 

“It’s a fair question,” he said finally. “But there are a few reasons we decided to do it.”

“First, it pains me to say it, but I honestly don’t know when we’ll manage to free ourselves from this binding, if we ever do. So… we don’t really know how long we have, anymore. And Crowley and I spent so long having to pretend that we hated each other, and having to hide everything we said or did from our supervisors—if we don’t have much time left, we’re going to do the opposite of hiding for as long as we can.”

Newt smiled. “Of course,” he said. “If that’s the case, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops in your shoes.”

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale. 

Newt looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t get the chance. Crowley and Anathema came back in from Anathema’s garden, where the hellebore and bleeding hearts were putting on a show. Crowley was deep in discussion with Anathema over how to rescue the primrose bush, which was apparently refusing to flower. 

“You should really try threatening it a bit more,” Crowley was saying as he came into the room. “Keep it in its place. Let it know dissembling won’t be tolerated. I recommend chain saws, they work wonders for morale.”

“You have a very strange relationship with your plants,” Anathema said, which Aziraphale thought was putting it mildly. “Oh, Aziraphale, I tracked down that research paper I was telling you about, the one using theodolites to find missing spirits. They had a copy of it in the stacks at King’s College.”

“Oh, do share,” said Aziraphale, and the topic was lost. For that day, anyway.

Aziraphale thought about Newt’s question a number of times after that in the months and weeks leading up to their ceremony. Every time he thought about his own answer, it felt incomplete, somehow. 

The wedding was _incredible._ The Great Conservatory inside Syon Park was crammed full of people, a light wind softening the cheerful warmth of the sun. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale were carrying bouquets, but flowers adorned practically every other surface in the hall. 

Crowley had worked overtime until every pillar, window frame, and arching bannister was bursting with color, a riot of flowers in perfect bloom to rival any garden (even _the_ Garden). Calla lilies and sweet peas beckoned from stone archways; orchids swayed in the gentle breeze, dangling from delicate stems. Vines made of peonies and ranunculus climbed the arch over the altar, tumbling romantically from the sides. The scene was magnificent. 

And then there were the people. Despite their initial estimation that the ceremony would be quite small, nearly a hundred guests crowded into the park on that gorgeous July morning. Aziraphale was honestly astonished. 

In addition to Aziraphale and Crowley’s human friends and their immediate family, the wedding congregation was swelled by a great many people they’d met through their ‘work.’ A number of the attendees were young people who’d found much-needed sanctuary at one of the shelters or programs they helped run, or who’d come to know Aziraphale through the bookshop. Many of them presented a sharp contrast to the extremely traditional location Bev had found for the wedding: pierced and tattooed, their hair every color of the rainbow, sporting secondhand suits and dresses and everything in between.

Aziraphale loved it. He knew for a fact that Crowley did, too. And Aziraphale might not prefer more ‘modern’ clothes himself, but they’d gone out of their way to make it clear on the invitations that having their guests come as their happiest, truest selves was more important than anything else. 

And this moment, when the music was swelling and he and Crowley were walking up the twin paths towards the altar—this was when Aziraphale was struck with realization. He could feel the love and happiness radiating off every single person in this room. Happiness for him and Crowley, together.

It was not that Aziraphale needed validation from anyone other than Crowley. He would have pledged the rest of his life to the demon, even if all of existence turned their backs on them for it. But he had forgotten how amazing it felt to feel seen, to feel _accepted_ by his community for who he was instead of forced to pretend otherwise. 

The ceremony was short and to the point. Warlock was the ringbearer; Adam, Pepper, Anathema, and Newt stood at the altar for the two of them. Bev gave a brief but beautiful speech about love in the face of adversity. Aziraphale only half heard it; he was rather distracted by the sight of Crowley directly in front of him. They were wearing matching suits—Crowley in black with red, Aziraphale in white with tan—but Crowley had chosen to skip his sunglasses, which meant that Aziraphale could see quite plainly how the demon was struggling not to cry. Aziraphale’s face was dry, at least for now, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

Sure enough, when Crowley reached for the mic with trembling fingers, Aziraphale’s eyes began to burn. They stung worse as Crowley stumbled through his vows, voice rough, too-bright eyes locked with Aziraphale’s. But it wasn’t until Crowley took a deep breath and set his shoulders that a wave of shock went down Aziraphale’s spine.

“_Thought my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light. I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night,_” Crowley said. Aziraphale forgot to breathe. Crowley smiled at him, wobbly and sweet. “Out of every star in the sky, you are my one constant, the light that always guides me true. Be my North Star, angel, and wherever we go I will make a home with you.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale whispered. His eyes blurred and his ears rang, his heart suddenly too huge for his chest. 

His face must be a sight, because Crowley laughed, tears spilling down his cheeks. He handed the mic over, and Aziraphale took it, trying to rally himself enough to say his own piece. 

“I’m rubbish with poetry, so don’t expect anything as good as what you just heard,” Aziraphale said. A ripple of laughter went through the room. “But luckily for me, I fell in love with someone I never needed to pretend with. Someone who never made me feel as though I needed to hide who I am, or what I love. This is important, because as anyone who knows me can tell you, I find there’s so very much to enjoy in this world.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. Reaching out, he took Crowley’s hand, twining their fingers together. Crowley was staring at him, transfixed. Aziraphale could feel the demon’s hand tremble in his, and he felt a wave of love for Crowley in this moment, for daring to be so vulnerable and honest with Aziraphale in front of an entire room of people. 

“I’ve seen everything the world has to offer, my dear,” he said. “All its beauties and its riches, all things bright and beautiful. I love it all. But there’s never been anything in the whole world that wasn’t made better by getting to share it with you.”

Aziraphale’s voice caught. He had to struggle to get the last words out. “Stay with me,” he said shakily. “Let me share everything life has to offer with you, and I will be the happiest man in the world.”

Crowley smiled at him. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile back. Bev was saying the next bit, asking if they vowed to honor and love one another for the rest of their days. Crowley was saying _I do_ at the same time as him and then they were sliding rings on each other’s fingers—

_Oh,_ Aziraphale thought dizzily. _This is really happening. I really get to have this?_

Finally, Bev leaned forward, glancing from Aziraphale to Crowley with an irresistible smile. “I now pronounce you married, in the eyes of this congregation and the world,” she said. “Let no one come between you from now until the end of all things. You may now kiss your spouse.”

The park exploded, the cheering and applause deafening. Aziraphale pulled Crowley in, kissing those dear lips, and it was hard to tell whose tears were dampening his cheeks. For a moment it felt as if all his Grace had come back at once, buoyed by a warmth that suffused his whole body. He felt weightless, overflowing with a joy he hadn’t known since the first heady days of Creation.

Crowley pulled away first. The demon was smiling at him through his tears, eyes wide and stunned. “Let’s go, my darling,” said Aziraphale. “We have awful dancing to do.” Crowley laughed. 

They turned towards the audience and descended the short steps. For just a moment Aziraphale saw two figures at the back of the congregation: one outlined in white, the other limned in fire. He blinked, and they were gone. 

Despite the spike of anxiety this brought him, he didn’t have time to dwell. Crowley disappeared briefly to change, reappearing in a magnificent red-and-black dress that showed off both shoulders and leg, sporting devastating red lipstick and a handsome smirk. They shook hands or hugged what seemed like every person in the world, all of them bursting with congratulations for him. For all that he had planned every single aspect of the food himself, Aziraphale hardly tasted any of it, too distracted by guests and his own exultation. Crowley too was overcome, although Aziraphale noticed the demon seemed to have a champagne flute glued to his hand. 

The fly in the ointment reappeared after the ceremony, during dinner. There was a lull in the endless number of people approaching him and Crowley to congratulate them. Aziraphale turned towards a side table to grab something to eat—he’d been so distracted everything he’d somehow his own dinner—and when he turned around, Gabriel and Beelzebub were standing in front of him. 

They looked much the same as that day at Tadfield Airforce Base, the same elegant grey suit and black-and-red ensemble. Now, as then, their expressions matched: fury masked by a thin veneer of disapproval.

Gabriel smiled, wide and unpleasant. He clasped his hands together. “Word on the street was that you and the demon Crowley had gone well and truly native,” he said. “But even I didn’t think you’d go _this_ far.”

“We had to come and zzzsee it for ourselllllveszzzz,” said Beelzebub. Their face was alight with malevolence. “It’s even worse than we thought.”

Aziraphale stared, dinner plate forgotten. He felt frozen, empty, as if waiting for his conscious mind to wake up and start screaming. For a moment all he could do was stare. “So kind of you to stop by,” he managed; the words seemed to come from another person, produced without any foreknowledge on his part. 

Then Crowley’s voice came from behind him. “Aziraphale, have you had any of these scones yet, I saved you—” Aziraphale heard the air choke off in the demon’s throat as Crowley spotted the interlopers. He turned and saw his husband (his husband!) staring pale-faced at Gabriel and Beelzebub, real fear writ on that face he loved so well. Something in his heart turned over. 

“Hello, _Crowley,_” said Beelzebub—or started to, because that was when the archangel in Aziraphale’s heart woke up.

“How dare you,” Aziraphale snarled. Beelzebub broke off, looking startled. Aziraphale advanced, getting right up in Gabriel and Beelzebub’s faces, and both the angel and the demon took a hasty step back, eyes wide with alarm. “How _dare_ you?”

“How dare _you_,” countered Gabriel, drawing himself up as he tried to rally. “You’re the one who’s sullying yourself, who’s gone and—”

“Gone and married the love of my life?” Aziraphale reached out, grabbing Gabriel by the lapel of his fine tailored suitcoat. Gabriel froze, staring at Aziraphale’s hand as though he expected it to send him up in flames like the Hellfire he’d tried to destroy Aziraphale with. Aziraphale dragged him forward until Gabriel was eye-to-eye with him.

“You listen to me, you miserable, pompous, self-righteous excuse for an angel,” said Aziraphale. “We are _done_. Crowley and I are beyond you now. If you’d rather waste all your time on a six thousand year old grudge, fine. You do that. But you are going to leave. Us. _Out of it._”

He shook Gabriel for emphasis on each word, then released him forcefully, sending him staggering back into Beelzebub. The archdemon had to scramble to keep them both from knocking into a table. Aziraphale started to go after them, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He looked back and saw Crowley’s expression. The fear was gone; something else was in its place.

“Don’t stoop to their level,” he said in a low voice. Aziraphale flushed; Crowley smiled at him. Then he wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder. After a moment, Aziraphale did the same in return.

Crowley lifted his head, looking over at Gabriel and Beelzebub now. “Gabriel, Beez,” he said. He sounded almost cordial. “Get out of my wedding reception. And don’t ever bother us again.”

Gabriel and Beelzebub glowered at them for a moment, but it was impotent. Then they simply vanished. Aziraphale let out a long breath. He shut his eyes, turning towards Crowley and burying his face in the demon’s neck.

“You all right?” Crowley murmured. 

Aziraphale let out a sigh. “Never better,” he said. It was not quite true—the confrontation had shaken him, and his hands were trembling—but he was not going to let this ruin today of all days. “Come on, I think I need some wine.”

No one seemed to have noticed their little altercation, not even Adam. For that, Aziraphale was grateful. Despite his lingering unease, he quickly lost himself in the merry business of the day again, sinking happily into well-wishes of all the people there. Gabriel and Beelzebub did not reappear, and neither did anyone else from their former sides. 

There were speeches: Anathema, Bev, and Adam. Crowley was wearing his sunglasses by this point, but Aziraphale did not miss the tears still leaking down his husband’s cheeks. The demon had always been a soft touch, much as he liked to pretend otherwise. They leaned against each other as they listened, fingers firmly twined. There was a sizable pile of presents on the rear table, despite the fact Aziraphale and Crowley had told everyone they wanted nothing but the company of their guests. 

One of the young people Crowley knew from the women’s shelter was the ‘dee jay,’ which Aziraphale now knew had to do with playing songs in an exciting order. It was a toss-up as to who was a worse dancer, Aziraphale or Crowley (if ‘hipless slithering tumble down a flight of stairs,’ Crowley’s preferred movement, could be described as dancing). It didn’t stop either of them from enjoying themselves immensely, or from dancing with every single one of their guests. (The copious amount of alcohol flowing at the reception helped.)

They danced and drank and laughed and made merry with their friends. And when it was over, they went home together, exhausted and thrilled. It was one of the very best days of Aziraphale’s life. Considering he was … well, six thousand years old plus some change, that was saying something.

* * * * *

After the wedding—and after a short, faux honeymoon in Calais—things took a turn downhill.

Bev’s health took a sharp decline. She stopped making social calls, and then she stopped leaving the flat. Not six weeks after their wedding, Aziraphale and Crowley had taken over almost all of Bev’s volunteer and charity work for her. Bev finally confirmed for them what Aziraphale had suspected for months: she had cancer. It was humanity’s oldest affliction, the emperor of all maladies. And she would not recover.

Crowley and Aziraphale had a row over whether or not to confront Bev with their concerns. Crowley, strangely, was the one who was reluctant to push the issue, and Aziraphale found himself in the bizarre position of trying to persuade Crowley to go along with him.

“She’s dying, angel,” Crowley said. He took off his sunglasses and fixed Aziraphale with a piercing stare. “Whatever she is or isn’t, harassing her won’t change that.”

“We’ve never talked to her about our predicament at all,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, darling, don’t you want to know if she had something to do with this?”

Crowley didn’t answer. The demon stared at him for a moment; then his gaze slid past Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale got the strong impression that whatever Crowley was looking at wasn’t truly there. 

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, finally. The reluctance in his voice was shocking, like biting down on a candy and finding it sour instead of sweet. “I don’t want to think she’d do something so cruel to us. She’s—she’s—”

_Our friend._ Realization and heartbreak hit Aziraphale at the same moment. After all their years of holding humans at arm’s length, these special few had somehow wormed inside their hearts. Aziraphale thought about what it must have cost Crowley to permit himself to believe he had such a thing as a friend, about how hard he’d worked to let his guard down. The thought almost made him give up.

Almost. 

He took a deep breath. “My dear,” he said, gently. Crowley’s gaze flicked back to him. “I do not think for a moment that Bev would deliberately hurt us. I just think there’s something we can’t quite see the shape of. And we will soon lose our chance to ask.”

Crowley sighed. “All right,” he said. He picked up his sunglasses, settling them onto his face with unmistakable pique. “Let’s have a go, then.”

But they never did get the chance. Between Bev’s apparently enormous family and her many friends and acquaintances, it became increasingly hard to get her alone. And when they did get her alone, often she was so tired she’d fall asleep partway through a simple conversation. Aziraphale found it difficult to believe that anyone whose life was slipping so rapidly through their fingers could possibly maintain the kinds of wards binding him and Crowley. But regardless, he simply did not know. 

Crowley took it hard. He took on more and more of Bev’s work, full of dark energy and driven by either anger or fear, it was hard to say. At night he curled more tightly against Aziraphale’s side, locking himself around the angel and hiding his face in Aziraphale’s neck. 

Aziraphale wasn’t much better. He did everything he could to make Bev comfortable and to comfort her loved ones, and outside of that, he prayed. He didn’t expect an answer—nor did he get one—but he found the act comforting despite himself. But he did still spend hours poring over books with Anathema, still desperately searching for some kind of 11th hour answer.

He and Crowley weren’t the only ones playing the what-if game. “There must be something you can do,” Pepper said to them. It was another scorcher of an August day outside the bookshop, London’s streets bustling despite the sweltering heat. Aziraphale glanced over as Crowley stood up and disappeared into the kitchen, coming back with another iced lemonade for their unofficial god-daughter. “Please. You’re an angel and a demon, surely—”

“At the moment, we’re mortal,” said Aziraphale gently. “I’m sorry, Pepper. If there was a way for us to help her, we’d do it in a heartbeat.” He did not mention the hours and months they’d spent throwing themselves at this exact problem over and over, only to come up empty-handed every time. 

Pepper stared at them. Her eyes were very glassy, the faintest tremble in her lower lip. “It isn’t fair,” she said, and the words came out jagged. “She can’t. It’s not right. Auntie Bev was _fine_ just a year ago.”

“Did you ask Adam?” Crowley’s voice was soft. He sat down next to Pepper on the couch. “Maybe there’s something he can do.”

Pepper nodded, staring at her hands. “He tried,” she said. “But it didn’t work. He doesn’t know why.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow at Aziraphale, who only shrugged. Adam still had certain powers, but he had chosen humanity, just as Aziraphale and Crowley had. The angel rather suspected their one-time Antichrist would be wholly human and power-free by the time he was an adult, but at the moment, it didn’t much matter.

“We’ll do everything we can,” Aziraphale said, which happened to be the truth. 

A year and a day after they were struck with mortality, Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves confronting it again. 

They were at Bev’s flat—spending the night, as many of her loved ones were taking turns doing. By now she’d declined all further interventions, wanting only to spend her remaining time in her own home with her friends and family, and Aziraphale was determined to give her that. But the storm that swept over London was unlike anything they’d seen in recent years. London did not normally get the kind of thunderstorms that blew down buildings and spawned funnel clouds, but the next day the news would be full of reports of the Underground flooding, of wrecked shops and downed powerlines. 

At eight pm, all the lights went out. Aziraphale and Crowley lit candles and helped Bev to bed, and then—on some kind of instinct, a sense they both shared after their long centuries on Earth—they set up a vigil at her bedside. 

“We should call the rest of the family,” Aziraphale said quietly, some two hours later. “They should be here.”

“Short of a miracle, they won’t be able to get here, angel,” said Crowley in a low voice. “Not without needing an ambulance themselves.” Beneath the coverlet, Bev’s shallow breathing was the only sign she hadn’t yet gone from the world. In the dim candlelight, Aziraphale could almost pretend she was the same vibrant woman she’d been the day he met her, bursting with brilliant life. 

In that moment he found he hardly cared if he never got an answer about if she’d had something to do with their binding. If she had, it would likely die with her; mortals weren’t capable of casting the kind of binding that would outlast their deaths, and in the rare cases they were, Aziraphale would almost certainly have been able to sense it on her. 

It wasn’t fair, he thought. His eyes burned traitorously. He’d done his best the past few months to keep his own feelings under wraps, focusing instead on attending to everyone else’s needs, but he could no longer ignore his impending loss. He’d done this so many times over the years, for so many different mortals: Sappho, Eleanor of Aquitine, Christopher Marlowe, Oscar Wilde. It was one of the few things that did not get particularly easier with practice. 

“This is fine,” said Bev, startling Aziraphale. She turned her head, opening her eyes to look at them. Her gaze was strangely bright in the dim room. Aziraphale got the sudden, painful idea that her soul was burning up inside her body with the last energy she possessed.

He straightened, opening his mouth to ask a question. But Bev sat up, the blankets puddling around her waist. “Can I ask a favor?”

“Of course,” said Crowley. 

“Would you sing to me?” 

Aziraphale and Crowley sat for a second, mutually stunned. “What makes you think I can carry a tune in a bucket?” Crowley asked. He sounded like he was trying for droll and not quite managing it.

“You can sing,” Bev said. “Both of you can. You just haven’t done it in a long while.” She was still staring at them with those strangely bright eyes. 

Aziraphale exchanged a glance with Crowley, who looked as suddenly alert as Aziraphale felt. There was something very off about the air in the room; something had changed. _Something is burning away,_ Aziraphale thought again, and suppressed a shudder.

“Very well,” he said, speaking first. “What would you like to hear?”

“Anything,” she said. Bev leaned back against the mountain of pillows she was propped again, folding her hands in her lap. 

“All the popular songs I know are Queen, and I don’t think I can really manage Freddie Mercury,” said Crowley. He looked as unnerved as Aziraphale felt. 

“I don’t care if I know it or not,” said Bev. “I just want to hear your voices. Please?”

_Oh, Hell,_ Aziraphale thought. “As you wish,” he said aloud. Glancing again at Crowley, he straightened in his chair. He took a deep breath, filling human lungs with air that burned and flickered inside his chest, and began to sing.

The words were old, so old. Enochian had not been spoken by humans for thousands of years. Now they thought it was only a myth, something invented by charlatan occultists. The song was a hymn praising the stars in the sky for their brilliance, the melody beautiful and sweet in its simplicity. 

For the first few bars, Aziraphale sang alone. His tenor was rusty, growing stronger as the words moved through him, awakening something in his chest that he’d slowly forgotten over the past centuries. But then Crowley joined him at the refrain, his voice deeper than Aziraphale’s and more pure. 

Aziraphale stuttered into brief, stunned silence. He’d _never_ heard Crowley sing like that, not even once. But no, that wasn’t true, was it? With a shock, he abruptly remembered the last time he’d sang this song: just a short while before the war that sundered Heaven, standing hand-in-hand with a red-haired angel as they raised their voices with the rest of the Heavenly choir. 

_My darling,_ Aziraphale thought, shaken. How Crowley still knew the words was beyond him, but his voice was strong and sure. 

Crowley kept going. Aziraphale sucked in a breath and rejoined him. The song was long for human standards, short by angelic. Bev sat perfectly still, watching them with wide eyes and a faint, sweet smile on her face. 

As they sang, something incredible happened. Aziraphale felt the air in the room growing warm, then hot. The bedroom seemed to expand, pushing outwards and upwards until it had to be the size of a cathedral. Out of the corners of his eyes Aziraphale thought he saw stars twinkling in the firmament, mysterious fires bursting to life. He had the sudden, impossible sensation of being suspended far above solid ground.

And then he changed.

He felt himself burn hotter and hotter and hotter—all the fires of Creation lit inside of him, a single moment of terror and exaltation—and then with a _snap_ felt on this plane and every other, all of the pieces of himself sprang back into place. His wings unfurled behind him, opening to their full span. Beside him, Crowley’s wings unfolded too, velvety black and perfect as the night sky. Aziraphale’s voice shook, but he did not stop singing, and neither did Crowley. They stood, and simultaneously they reached for the other’s hand, holding tightly to each other as they finished the song. 

Finally, it was done. The star-field faded, space collapsing back to its normal mundane dimensions. Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s wings remained, however, and Aziraphale could feel all the parts of himself that had been locked away for the past year, tingling and overly sensitive. He glanced over at Crowley and saw the demon’s infernal halo had returned, and felt his own halo burning above his head as well. 

Then he looked back at Bev and nearly jumped out of his skin. Standing beside the bed was another figure. This one was all too familiar: clad all in black, his eyes empty holes, with wings made of the dark star-field they’d just been floating in.

“Azrael,” whispered Crowley. His hand in Aziraphale’s tightened.

But Death was not looking at him. He was staring at the woman in bed, whom Aziraphale abruptly noticed looked very different. She looked younger, more alert, and familiar somehow. She looked—

“Hello, Eve,” said Death. “It’s been a long time.” 

Beverly Rosenberg laughed, a bright, clear noise like sunshine. But she no longer looked like Bev Rosenberg. She threw aside the covers and stood up, and before them stood the very first human they’d ever spoken to. She looked much like she did that day in the Garden, although now she was clad in a rough cotton robe that was belted at the waist. It was the way she had dressed for most of her life after she and Adam left Eden.

Beside him, Crowley made an incomprehensible noise. Aziraphale could feel the demon’s distress and confusion radiating off him now that his angelic senses were back in working order. “I don’t understand,” Crowley said shakily. “Eve? What—what are you doing here?”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. Eve glanced over at Death, a question in her face. 

“Go on,” said Azrael. “I’ve waited this long, a few more minutes doesn’t matter.” 

Aziraphale needed a moment. His Grace was back—he could feel everything: his wings, his eyes, even his connection with Heaven still singing bright and true in the center of his soul—but at the moment he felt as confused as the moment he’d woken up mortal. Speaking of being made mortal, though: 

“Eve,” he said slowly. “Was this your doing?”

“Sort of,” said Eve. A guilty expression crossed her face. She came around the bed to stand in front of them, looking intently up at them. Saints, it really was her—Aziraphale would know those eyes anywhere. “I didn’t bind you, but I’m the reason it happened. I asked for the chance to see you both again. To say thank you.”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, but Crowley looked as baffled as the angel felt. “Thank us for _what?_” Crowley asked. His voice was rough; he looked inches from tears. “After what we did to you—”

“You opened a door for my family,” said Eve. The chiding note in her voice was familiar on multiple levels now. “You gave us the tools and the knowledge to write our own destinies. And when the world was coming to an end, you stood up for us, and reminded us that we always have a choice.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes burned. Crowley let out a muffled sob. Aziraphale glanced over and saw that tears were running freely down his husband’s face. Crowley’s eyes were wide with shock, his other hand over his mouth. 

Eve smiled at him. She reached up, gently brushing some tears away with her fingertips. “You showed me how to be more than a rib,” she said, very softly. “My oldest friend, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

Crowley choked. Eve went up on her tip-toes to hug him, and Crowley let her. He let go of Aziraphale’s hand to wrap his arms around her, burying his face in her black curls. After a moment Eve stepped back and turned to Aziraphale. Her face was so kind; she radiated love like heat from an oven. Aziraphale’s breath hitched as she embraced him next, hugging him tightly to her. He hugged her back, his mind spinning like the wheels of the Bentley as he tried to re-orient himself to what was going on.

But he couldn’t quite get there. “I still don’t understand,” he said, as Eve stepped back. “You—_She_ made us mortal? Why?”

Eve spread her hands, palms-up. “You’ve been looking out for humanity since the beginning,” she said. “You put yourselves in danger for us. You picked us over your own sides. I wanted you to know that you’ll always be part of our family. You’ll always have a place in my house.” 

For a moment, Aziraphale still didn’t comprehend it. But then Eve looked at Azrael, and Crowley gasped. The angel of Death inclined his head in acknowledgment. 

“This is my gift,” Eve said softly. “You don’t have to take it. But if you’re ever tired, and you want to come home, the door is open.” 

The realization of what was being offered hit Aziraphale like a thunderclap. To live a human life and die a human death was something never granted to any being of angelic stock. Discorporation or destruction was not quite the same thing. Aziraphale wondered if he even knew what a human death would mean anymore. Would they go to Heaven? To Hell? To somewhere else entirely? Would they be reincarnated, or transformed?

Once, he’d thought he knew the answers to all of those questions. After the past year and some change, he was no longer so sure. The thought made him dizzy.

Azrael shifted, drawing their attention back to him. “The hour grows late,” he said. His voice was curiously gentle.

Eve sighed. “I know,” she said. “Just one more moment.” She turned back to Aziraphale and Crowley, her smile turning mischievous. “Do me a favor.”

“Anything,” Aziraphale said. Beside him Crowley nodded once, fierce. 

“Tell Pepper I love her,” said Eve. “And tell Adam I’m proud of him.”

“Of course,” said Crowley. Aziraphale spared a moment to wonder how _that_ conversation would go, and then dismissed it. Eve smiled at them once more, radiant and impossible. Then she turned to go.

“Wait!” said Aziraphale. Eve paused, glancing back at him. Aziraphale hesitated. “If you asked to see us again,” he said, “why didn’t we ever run into you until now? You’ve been waiting over a hundred and fifty years!”

Eve grinned at him. “We got the timing wrong,” she said. “Everyone thought the world was going to end with the Nazis, but it didn’t. I’m just glad you didn’t make me wait nine hundred years.”

“I wish we’d found you sooner,” Crowley said. His voice was still thick with his tears. “I wish we’d had more time.”

Eve’s smile turned softer now, sadder. “I know, sweetheart,” she said. Crowley bowed his head. There was nothing else to say.

Death extended an elbow, for all the world like a man escorting his date to a show. Eve took it. Aziraphale and Crowley watched them go, walking into the star-field and growing more distant by the moment. Then reality winked, and they were alone in the utterly normal bedroom. 

Bev lay quiet and still beneath the coverlet. She looked as though she could be sleeping. Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley, who was staring at the bed. Both of them still had their wings out.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, and he sighed. “I guess we had better make some calls.”

* * * * *

_six years later_

“THOU-SHALT-NOT-USE-COMPUTERS-NEWTON PULSIFER, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? We’re going to bloody well leave without you!”

“Coming, coming!” Newt came hustling into the kitchen of the cottage dragging a suitcase, red in the face and flustered. “Sorry!”

Aziraphale hid his smile in his tea as Crowley growled theatrically. “Is Anathema almost ready?” Aziraphale inquired, keeping his voice calm.

“Just repacking a few books!” came the witch’s voice from the next room. ‘A few’ turned out to be an entire duffel bag, which Anathema dragged into the kitchen alongside a more normal-sized suitcase, presumably full of literally everything else she’d need for the trip.

It was mid-December, the run-up to the holidays in full swing. Most of the weekend had been spent in London, celebrating Anathema successfully defending her thesis. They’d retired to Aziraphale and Crowley’s cottage in Sussex yesterday afternoon and were supposed to leave today. The four of them had had rather too much to drink, but Newt and Anathema hadn’t the benefit of being able to rapidly sober up before bed, so they were running a little behind this morning. 

“We’re going to Bangkok, what are you bringing so many books for?” demanded Crowley. 

“Come now, darling, there’s always time for some reading,” said Aziraphale. He reached over, plucking a pear from the bowl of fruit on the table. Cutting it into neat slices, he bit into one, savoring the burst of sweetness on his tongue. He really would miss the pear tree in their garden while they were gone; Crowley grew him the most delicious fruit in the whole world. 

Finding himself outvoted on the books front, aforementioned demon made a disgusted noise. He rose from his disaffected sprawl on another of the kitchen chairs, sidling around the table to come bump his non-existent hip against Aziraphale’s. “All right, all right, let’s go down the list,” he said. “Passports?”

“Check,” chorused Newt and Anathema. 

“Wallets?”

“Check,” said Anathema. 

Newt patted his jacket pockets with increasing consternation until his wife reached over and patted his rear end. “Ah,” said Newt. “There it is.”

“Visas?” said Crowley.

“I have both of ours in my wallet,” said Anathema. “Tell me again why we have to have all this paperwork when we aren’t even going to be going flying or going through customs?”

“It’s _insurance,_” Crowley said, with the air of someone who has had this conversation about five times, although it was probably only the once. “We aren’t going to be with you every minute of the bloody day, I don’t want to have to rescue you from some government cell if you haven’t got the right documents.”

“Aren’t Adam and his friends going to be a bit sore that we get to skip the plane ride and they didn’t?” Newt asked. 

“We offered, actually,” Aziraphale said. “When they left at the start of their trip. But Pepper said they wanted to do it the proper human way.” The Them, plus Warlock, were celebrating their freedom from mandatory schooling with a proper gap year. They’d left five months ago, making their way across Europe before jumping to southeast Asia. If Aziraphale recalled correctly, the merry band would eventually make it through Australia, New Zealand, and South America before heading home. But before that, they would be meeting Aziraphale, Crowley, Newt, and Anathema for a whole month in Thailand. Aziraphale had been looking forward to it immensely.

They were just about ready to go. They’d be leaving the little cottage all tied up with a bow, warded to Heaven and back (and then to Hell and back) with magic both celestial and demonic. No one would even notice their unusual little cottage—with its enormous library, vast backyard garden, and detached greenhouse—much less make it through the front door. Aziraphale had offered to do something similar for Jasmine Cottage, but Newt and Anathema had apparently preferred to let Tadfield’s own busybody Mr. Tyler look after it for them while they were gone. 

Aziraphale was still rather impressed they’d kept the cottage at all, considering how much time they’d spent in London while Anathema did her PhD. But then, he knew a thing or two about being attached to places.

He stood, tidying the tea and his mug with a gesture; the porcelain set settled itself back on the shelves where it came from with a prim _clink_. Crowley looked at him. “Did you check that your bookshop is sorted?”

“Not yet,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll go do it now. You did the garden already, yes?”

“‘Course I did,” Crowley said. “The backyard knows not to even _think_ about waking up till we’re back, and all the plants in the green house will keep themselves just fine. If they know what’s good for them.”

“Very well,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll just pop over, then.” He leaned in and dropped a kiss on his husband’s cheek, and then walked towards what appeared to be a broom closet set into the rear of the kitchen. Aziraphale opened the door and stepped through, emerging into the back room of the bookshop in Soho. Everything was just how he’d left it: not a tome out of place, and not a customer in sight.

(The rare books dealership in Soho had become a topic of legend amongst book-loving Londoners in the seven years since the Apocalypse—not that most people remembered _that_ day. After one year of having almost normal hours, the bookshop had slowly become ever more impossible to get into. Multiple websites were devoted to its eccentric hours and even more eccentric owner, and nearly all of them were wrong on the details.)

Aziraphale did a quick walk-through of the shop, checking that all of his wardings were still humming along. He did a full circuit from the front doors, through every stack, and all the way to the back where his work desk was still laden with order books, receipts, and various other reference material. 

He found himself standing in front of the desk, admiring the newest furniture addition to the bookshop: several shelves. Unlike literally every other shelf in the bookshop, this one wasn’t full of books. It was full of photos.

Aziraphale’s gaze wandered over the spread of framed photographs, admiring each in turn. A great many of them had been taken by Warlock, who had become quite the amateur photographer during his teen years and loved gifting Crowley and Aziraphale with his work. Some of them were of the Them: parties, trips to the continent, the Them’s graduation, Warlock’s eighteenth birthday. Here was Newt and Anathema’s wedding; here was Sgt. Shadwell and Madame Tracy’s housewarming party. Here was Beverly Rosenberg as a child, those grainy black-and-white 1860s photos; here was Bev as a young woman at university in a fashionable gown of indeterminate year. Here was Aziraphale and Crowley exchanging rings at their wedding—Crowley hated this photo in particular, mainly because he was quite obviously overcome with tears in it, but Aziraphale loved it. 

There were a great many photos of just Aziraphale and Crowley together doing stupid, ordinary things. Most of them were gifts, taken by other people. Aziraphale looked more or less the same in all of them, while Crowley had a range of appearances. His favorite of these was one of Crowley at the beach, lounging in a stylish one-piece under an umbrella with his hands folded peacefully on his stomach. (The one of Crowley staring out the window in a backless dress was another he adored.) Aziraphale knew they had to be careful about how many photos of them existed in the world—modern humans could be so clever, keeping track of this kind of thing—but he loved them all the same. 

The last photo was perhaps Aziraphale’s favorite. Someone had snapped a photo of Bev with Aziraphale and Crowley at dinner, the three of them deeply engrossed in some conversation. Aziraphale had no memory of what they were talking about, but he loved the easy body language of the photo and the laughter in their faces over whatever they were talking about. It was from some fundraiser they had done together, he knew that much; he would never have gotten a photo of it otherwise.

Aziraphale shook his head. Keeping such close company with humans would cost them someday; even with the help of little miracles, humans could only live so long. But he and Crowley were in agreement on this front: it was worth it. Whatever the cost, they’d pay it gladly. 

Speaking of Crowley, there was a low thrum of energy as another being came through the linked door at the back of the shop. ”Aziraphale?” called the demon. “Everything all right? We’re waiting for you!”

“Coming!” called Aziraphale. He glanced once more at the wall of photos, eyes lingering on Bev’s smiling face. Then he turned and headed towards the back of the shop, where Crowley was leaning against a cabinet waiting for him. 

“Sorry, darling,” said Aziraphale. “Just tidying up, you know.”

“Of course you are,” said Crowley, affecting irritation and failing miserably. The corner of his lip twitched. “Ready?”

Aziraphale stopped. He reached down and took his husband’s hand, thumb rubbing gently at Crowley’s. “Ready when you are,” he said. 

Crowley blinked at him from behind dark glasses, then smiled. “Right,” he said. “We’re off.”

They vanished back to the cottage on the South Downs, the door swinging shut behind them. The bookshop would sit patiently until their return, however long it took. They would come back with more photos, their humans aging slow but steadily, more worries on their shoulders and more grey in their hair. 

But in the meantime, there was life to be lived. And they wouldn’t miss it for anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you are not overly familiar with the Bible, the reason Eve says she's glad Aziraphale and Crowley didn't make her wait nine hundred years is because that's how long she is said to have lived the first time around.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title comes from the excellent country-ish wistful lesbian goodness of [The Hard Way Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8AV5TRO1BqU) by Brandi Carlile; act title comes from the [Audioslave song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QU1nvuxaMA). I'm trying not to inflict my entire playlist of ridiculous A/C songs on you, but it's _hard_, okay.
> 
> Feel free to come yell at me on Twitter, it's @wonderthighs41!


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